


All's Fair

by TrinesRUs



Series: How We Begin Again [1]
Category: The Transformers (Cartoon Generation One)
Genre: AU, Blood and Injury, Festival of the FIve, Jealousy, M/M, Post-War, Sexual Harassment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-10
Updated: 2015-11-29
Packaged: 2018-04-25 16:47:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4968625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrinesRUs/pseuds/TrinesRUs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the backdrop of continued distrust between Autobots and Decepticons on post-war Cybertron, Motormaster enters the Festival of Mortilus to feel the rush of fighting again--and to win the spark of his intended. Just who that intended is, however, could mean adding a new tension to the Stunticons already tumultuous gestalt-link. Not only that, but there are some who aren't happy about his entrance, to say the least.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Setting the Stage

**Author's Note:**

> I let my roommate's drunk friends title this story, and ~~I'm too tired to decide if I like it or not~~ I decided I liked it, after some contemplation.
> 
> I wish I had a deep and thoughtful reason for why this ended up being set in a G1-cartoon-ish 'verse, but basically it amounts to, "Wait. What if Megatron was the previous victor, but then turning into Galvatron happened?"
> 
> My answer to, "Well, I like these two ships, but my friend prefers this ship," is to write and/or tease them all in one fic, apparently.
> 
> This was going to be one long chapter, but then my brain decided, "Nah."
> 
> Also, for anyone who happens to follow me on Tumblr: Yes, this is the "Holy fuck balls!" fic.

            In the pitch-black of night, mechs filed into the Grand Stadium of New Iacon. The stadium’s guest boxes, which were primarily used by human visitors and extraterrestrial ambassadors, and its golden arches were draped over with black cloths. All of the seats, too, had been repainted gunmetal-grey, and every light fixture had been either covered or dismantled. The gleaming aisles and sweeping rings the stadium was usually known for were subdued into something unrecognizable in the dark.

            The only illumination came from blue lanterns arranged around the seats in a swirl. They were spread out along the furthest rows and became more concentrated as the rows went lower, condensing into a bright spot in the central arena. From above, it resembled departed sparks circling down into the depths of Cybertron to rejoin the Well.

            Even the Balcony of Honor was barely lit. With only four seats there, only one lantern was necessary to see inside. The Prime and his consort had already taken their thrones. The seats reserved for the previous victor and their chosen were conspicuously empty, though no one dared mention why, regardless of which side they had been on during the war.

            Few words of any kind were exchanged aloud. Mechs avoided making as much sound as they could, from the clank of their pedes to the squeaking of their joints. Even the vendors serving bitter treats and mild, ungarnished refreshments did so with their vocalizers off, opting to communicate chirolinguistically if it was really needed. There would be no escaping noise later, but an initial period of near-silence was customary.

            The Festival of Mortilus was a somber affair even without the last vestiges of the war hanging over the helms of the survivors, but its memory still left a harsh haze on top of everything. It wasn’t merely the near-annihilation of their planet and the eternity it had taken to restore everything. Nor was it the countless sparks that had been extinguished in the battle between peace and conquest. It wasn’t even the irony of celebrating the Death-Bringer when the last victor had been resurrected by Unicron as a new mech without any of his old memories or that his chosen was now a free-floating immortal spark, drifting aimlessly through space.

            It was all of these combined with the severity of death and made all the more potent with the memory that the Festival of Mortilus had last taken place right on the brink of the Great War for Cybertron, barely a whole orbital cycle before its dawn.

            The occasion was rightfully heavy on every spark, whether they had been Autobot, Decepticon, neutral, or created after the war’s end. Everyone was united in solemn respect for the departed. Or, so it could have seemed if the atmosphere hadn’t been interrupted by four mechs crashing into the scene.

            “Make way!” cackled Wildrider, barreling his way through the stadium. He pushed onward to his favored seats, knocking other spectators into surrounding rows and forcing collisions between those trying to rush out of his path and those too slow or shocked to do so. Not content until he had thrown everyone into chaos, he leapt over the backs of the seats several times, confusing mechs to his destination.

            If anyone thought it would be safe to move back after he moved past, they were quickly proven wrong by Drag Strip racing after him. Breakdown was clinging to his dorsal plating, and the growing look of irritation on Drag Strip’s faceplate made it clear that this was not a voluntary arrangement. “Get the frag off me, Breakdown! Your dead weight is slowing me down.”

            Breakdown gulped. “Did you have to say _dead_ weight?” His grip was dislodged when Drag Strip whipped around to glare at him. Breakdown whimpered, but scurried after his gestalt-mate when he started sprinting again. “I mean, it’s the Death-Bringer’s ceremony. What’s to say the seating won’t cave in and crush us all?”

            Dead End trailed along after them, bringing up the rear of their chain. “There are a multitude of fashions in which the festivities could end your function. The seats could collapse; a meteor could collide with Cybertron; a wild pneuma-lion could be let loose in the arena; someone could slip an energy leech into the concessions…” When that earned a whine, he sighed and added, “But short of tumbling into the arena and being ripped apart by the combatants, most of them are highly unlikely.”

            A servo lashed out and caught Dead End by the pauldron. It might not have stopped him if he didn’t recognize the E.M.-field prickling up his with disgust. “Hey, what the frag do you ‘Cons think you’re doing? You can’t just barge in on an event like this. Show some respect.”

            “Slingshot,” Dead End acknowledged, turning towards the Aerialbot. “I wasn’t aware this event was limited to hot-helmed imbeciles. I see the appeal for such mechs, of course, but I presumed most of the ones without working processors were in the competitions, not lording themselves over their fellow audience.”

            “Real funny, slagger,” said Slingshot. He was somehow managing not to scream, though it was painfully obvious that he wanted to. He just had to content himself with hissing insults in his former enemy’s audial. “We all know why an event like this would appeal to _your kind_. The least you could do is be quiet and pretend to care about all the lives Cybertron lost.”

            Dead End stared at him for a solid klik, visor glowing as steady as always. Then, he said, “Silence is not a mark of care or respect. It is a mark of fear. Sitting here listening to nothing but the sound of your own sparks isn’t because you’re mourning the sparks extinguished by one faction or another; it’s because you’re paralyzed by the thought of the ultimate end, the fate that all of us are helpless to escape.”

            “Why you—”

            “Hey, both of you, calm down,” Silverbolt gently interjected. “We were all more or less born on Earth, right? We can excuse Dead End and his gestalt for not being familiar with the traditions. We’re all having to learn them.” He was trying to play peace-maker, but even he had a flicker of distrust in his optics when he looked at Dead End. “You can make all the noise you want after the hymns are over, but until they start, you have to keep your voices down.”

            It made Dead End want to shout the Decepticon Oath at them in defiance, but it felt futile. There was an unspoken sense that, even if factions had officially disbanded before the cycle of festivals started over with the race in honor of Solomus, nothing was really forgiven. He would always carry the stigma of fighting for the mechs that had granted him his frame, his spark, his personality—everything he was. They lost the war.

            “I’ll talk to my gestalt-mates,” he said, listening to his mask muffle the last remnants of bite in his voice. Dead End shook off Slingshot’s servo and walked away before he had to listen to any more self-righteous scrap from the other Aerialbots.

            When he rejoined the others, Drag Strip smirked at him. “Where have you been, slowpoke? I almost thought you wouldn’t get here until the fights were over.”

            “The Aerialbots have a challenge for you, Drag Strip. They don’t think you can beat them. They think you can’t make less noise than they do.”

            “They what!? I’ll show them! I—oh.” Dragstrip scrunched up his faceplate and sat on his servos. That would probably hold him for a while.

            Breakdown wasn’t making a lot of noise, outside of the occasional squeaks and the light chatter of his armor when he shivered. He wasn’t too much trouble. It was something else entirely trying to get Wildrider to calm down. Wildrider ran on pure, unpredictable impulse. Usually, Motormaster was the only one with any hope to control him.

            As it turned out, he didn’t need to. Breakdown caught on, and in that moment, Dead End praised his observational skills. “Wildrider, what w-would Motormaster say if you missed the whole opening because y-you were busy b-bothering everyone else?”

            Wildrider giggled, stretching himself over the laps of two mechs to try to steal the congealed oil balls from another. “Aw, Motormaster doesn’t care as long as we don’t miss a moment of his fight.”

            “A-and how will you know when his fight is if you don’t p-pay attention?”

            Wildrider stopped and frowned. He sat back up, relieving the mechs whose space he’d invaded, and said, “It’s not fair. Why can’t the rest of us fight? Why did he get to enter while the rest of us have to sit here?”

            “It isn’t about fighting,” said Dead End. “It’s a primitive courtship ritual wrapped up in spiritual nonsense to cater to the superstitious masses. You lack the requisite potential mate.”

            “Who does the ol’ Wreck Master want to impress anyway?”

            Dead End stared straight at the arena without answering. Out of the corner of his optic, he watched Breakdown shrink back into his seat.

 

            Motormaster hadn’t seen his gestalt since that evening. He’d been separated from them early to be corralled with the other combatants into a holding room of the stadium. The only thing he had said to them before he left their apartment was, “You’d all better be there, or else.” But even without trying to sneak a look outside, he knew the moment they arrived. News travelled fast, and “four mechs causing a disturbance” could only mean one thing.

            Around the holding chamber, he mostly saw familiar faces. The Festival of Mortilus was undoubtedly popular with former Decepticons, although there were more than a few former Autobots as well: everyone too used to fighting to just quit when the war was over. But if anyone thought that was the sole motivation, they’d need to check the roster for the last Festival of Epistemus with all the surviving Seekers.

            The violence inherent to the festival almost had former Decepticons barred from competing. “These former warriors are beasts,” one anonymous mech had told reporters. “Their war nearly destroyed our planet, and you want to give them a free pass to fight again?” It had taken campaigning and protests to let them enter the tournament. The winning argument was that participation in cultural activities was part of “rehabilitating” them and that having a structured avenue for fighting might keep worse violence from breaking out.

            To say that the opportunity for a good brawl wasn’t a motivation for former Decepticons to enter would be a lie. Most of them there at least had a mate in mind on top of it, but the peace agreements left them with so few chances to punch a mech, and many of them were aching for it. A handful of mechs had confessed to just being there to fight, but they had a plan if they won. Motormaster knew for a fact that Brawl had set up a fake chosen who would be happy to take the tradition if he was still up for a fight or take the stellar-cycle if he was in too poor condition.

            When the victor of the Festival of Mortilus announced their chosen, there were three possible responses, as opposed to the other festivals’ two. The others came with the options of instant acceptance or a year of courtship, at the end of which, a mech could accept or reject. In addition to those options, the Festival of Mortilus came with the option of “choosing the tradition,” which sprang from the fact that originally, the victor would have to fight their chosen for the right to claim them for a mate.

            The tradition was nearly dropped entirely when it gave rise to questions of consent and domestic abuse. If a mech won their right to a mate by beating them to scrap, there wasn’t complete confidence that a healthy bond could arise from it. A stellar-cycle of courtship at least gave time for a mech to gather a case against an unwanted suitor and be rid of them. In the end, the tradition was kept as an option when it was pointed out that it was the only way a mech could give an outright rejection, in front of everyone, without having to put up with a wait period.

            Not to mention the fact that some mechs _liked_ their mates having to prove their strength one last time before they would accept them.

            As far as Motormaster was concerned, the only Festival of the Five stories he had ever cared about had come from stories of Mortilus victors who’d gone through with the tradition. No one doubted the love Strika had for Obsidian, back when the tradition was the only option, when she let him pin her in under a klik when she could have easily flattened him against the coliseum walls. Starscream, too, had chosen the tradition, and only those who had no idea what they were talking about suggested that he was less than willing.

            Skywarp’s telling of the story was always the crudest. “You should have seen Screamer. His cockpit smashed in, his ailerons torn off, his vents crushed, energon leaking out of him…and he was practically rutting against Megatron by the end of it!”

            Motormaster watched Soundwave’s recordings at every opportunity. Soundwave always started right after the last round of the tournament, with Megatron standing tall and proud, even with several large dents, a knife sticking out of his abdominal plating, a broken servo and a flickering optic. He marched up to the victor’s podium, holding his chestplate high, obviously ignoring the dangerous way the metal was warped in, and declared, in the same certain tone he used for every decision he made, “I claim Starscream of Vos.”

            Always the showman, Starscream flew over the helms of the crowd, just out of the reach of the crazed fans grasping for him. He took his time, transforming into jet mode and taking laps around the coliseum. Lantern light danced eerily on his silver wings in the night. When he was satisfied with the crowd chanting his name, he finally flew down to the podium, doing a flip and transforming in the air before landing in front of Sentinel Prime. Starscream smirked as the crowd went wild, but he kept his focus on Megatron.

            It was obvious that Starscream wanted Megatron as much as the reverse, just in the moments they spent staring at each other. Their red optics burned like flames in the dark, all the brighter for the depths of the surrounding night. Starscream’s wings, raised high over his pauldrons, flicked a welcome gesture.

            “I choose,” the Seeker began slowly, drawing out his words. He kept the crowd waiting and waiting, never once moving his optics from Megatron’s. “In the name of Mortilus, I choose the tradition,” he said at last, and he tilted his helm, a playful invitation.

            There was hardly a doubt that Megatron was going to win. Starscream was in the best form he had ever been in, and he was fighting better than Motormaster had seen in any of his days of existence. He even managed to deal some good damage to Megatron, from breaking his olfactory sensor to tearing off a strip from his armor. But even worn down from round after round of battle, Megatron had the stamina to keep up with him.

            In any case, the result was obvious by the time Starscream pulled Megatron in for a kiss while lying in a pool of their mixed energon.

            Regardless of his opinions of Starscream, the video always made Motormaster swell with pride. Seeing Megatron win, as he always should have, sent a surge of satisfaction to overpower everything else. It reminded him why he was and only ever would be loyal to one master.

            Which is why it struck him even harder when they were released to parade into the arena, single-file, and he saw the empty seats that should have been Megatron’s and Starscream’s. It was all the crueler that he had to see Optimus Prime, back from the dead, and Elita-1 sitting in the prominent balcony while his rightful leaders couldn’t be there. And then he imagined Galvatron sitting in the victor’s chair, and that only filled him with greater rage.

            On a just Cybertron, there would only be two seats on the Balcony of Honor, and they would be taken by the two mechs who would never return.

            Motormaster scanned the stadium for his gestalt. They were seated on one of the lower rows, far enough from any of the aisles that Wildrider must have been the one to choose them. Drag Strip looked ready to burst, even at a distance, and he kept glancing back at—oh, that explained it. Four of the Aerialbots were seated a row back. Looking back at the other mechs marching out of another holding chamber, he could see Air Raid among them. Motormaster hoped he got to be the mech to punch Air Raid’s faceplate in.

            When the last combatants had been lined up inside the arena, a datafile pinged his processor. Within moments, a grand orchestra was struck up, and everyone was asked to sing.


	2. Overture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first match of the first round is underway, and it's Motormaster versus a traitor.

            Breakdown was the first to learn about the Festival of the Five.

            It was around the time he had worked up the nerve to leave their shared apartment on restored Cybertron for the first time and take himself down to the Reform Center. They were supposed to help sort him into a new function now that the war was over, to see if there might be better use for his skills outside of being a warrior. While he was waiting in the lobby for his turn, clinging to his chair like it might try to buck him out of his seat at any moment, three other mechs started up a conversation behind him.

            “Perceptor’s going to take it, no competition.”

            “Only because Proxima already has hers.”

            “No way. Brainstorm’s smarter than both of them.”

            “Seriously? Brainstorm? It’s not just about _smart_ , doofus; it’s about _wise_ , too.”

            “But you admit that he’s smarter than them.”

            “No chance.”

            At first, Breakdown assumed they were discussing some science award or something. The fact that they were only discussing Autobot scientists wasn’t lost on him, but then he thought about Decepticon scientists and decided that was probably for the best. As long as he wasn’t going to be used for target practice or a test subject, Autobot science was probably safer. But what they said next challenged that assumption.

            “Who do you think Perceptor would choose?”

            “Or Brainstorm.”

            “Okay, fine. Or Brainstorm, even though he’s definitely going to lose.”

            “Um, excuse me,” Breakdown cut in. He flinched when the three mechs turned to look at him. “S-sorry. But choose for what?”

            One mech’s gaze grew sharper, and Breakdown ducked his helm. He felt like they could see the Decepticon sigil on him even months after it had been scraped off. But instead of the judgement he was expecting, the mech just said, “Oh, these young builds. They don’t teach them the traditions before sending them off across the planet anymore.”

            “We were debating the upcoming Festival of Solomus,” another mech from the group explained. Seeing Breakdown’s continued confusion, he said, “The festival for the God of Wisdom?” No response. “The Festival of the Five?” Nothing. “They really _don’t_ teach young builds anything, do they?”

            “The Festival of the Five,” the first mech said, drawing out his words as though gearing up for a long lecture, “is a tradition honoring each of Cybertron’s five gods—the Guiding Hand—in turn. Every fifty vorns, a competition is held based on the god being honored.”

            “The next one is the race honoring Solomus, the God of Wisdom,” said the third mech. “It’ll be full of logic puzzles and mindfrags. There’s an order, see? Primus, Mortilus, Solomus, Epistemus, and Adaptus. Mortilus was the last one before the war, so it’s Solomus’ turn.”

            While Breakdown listened to the mechs explain everything about each of the festivals or all five together, he already knew which he would emphasize when he explained the Festival of the Five to his gestalt. He knew there was a particular video Motormaster liked to watch: one they never had context to, but where mechs invoked the name Mortilus. Until then, Mortilus meant nothing to them. Motormaster just liked seeing Megatron in battle, especially against a challenging or haughty opponent, and Starscream was both in that fight.

            At the time, Breakdown assumed it would just be that; he would give Motormaster the context for his favorite video, and they would move on. He never dreamed their gestalt leader would take it upon himself to learn everything he could about previous Festivals of Mortilus, and he never dreamed they would be sitting in the Grand Stadium of New Iacon, waiting to watch their leader participate in the tournament. Breakdown never dreamed Motormaster would have someone to fight for.

            Yet there Breakdown was, warbling the opening hymns alongside every other (mostly tone-deaf) Cybertronian in the stadium, with Motormaster looking up at the other Stunticons from the arena. Breakdown kept his optics averted, trying to pretend that he couldn’t be seen in the dim light. He didn’t like to think about all the mechs around, staring at the combatants, potentially turning their optics on him.

            Wildrider had, of course, seated them in a row with enough lanterns that everyone around them was illuminated in eerie blue light. But Breakdown could pretend that it was too dark for anyone to see him, maybe.

            What Breakdown couldn’t ignore, however, was the waves of emotion coming from Motormaster’s side of the gestalt-link. He was hit first by pride, then anger, then something that might have been possessiveness or hunger. Motormaster’s moods never lasted long, but the only time emotion wasn’t coming from his side of the link was when he shut down his emotions completely or when Breakdown cut himself off from the link.

            Only strong emotions were supposed to be transferred through a gestalt-link, but with a gestalt like the Stunticons, that requirement was effectively useless. One or more of them was just about always feeling strongly. They got used to feeling each other’s emotions rolling over them, whether it was caused by someone inside or outside the gestalt, if it was a symptom of their own disorders or not.

            Although, “got used to” probably wasn’t entirely true. Sometimes, they triggered each other’s moods just by feeling, and the links jumbled into a chaotic mess. It would be more accurate to say that they’ve learned to accept that they could feel another mech’s emotions even without being in range of their E.M.-fields.

            Ironically, as the hymns ended, Breakdown realized that he couldn’t feel Dead End’s E.M.-field even from right next to him, nor could Breakdown feel Dead End’s side of the gestalt-link. He pushed curiosity at Dead End and found a hard wall of nothing in response. Breakdown didn’t press any further than that.

 

            Whoever thought making everyone sing before an energon bath ought to have been thrown into the arena themselves, as far as Motormaster was concerned. Most of the mechs there couldn’t hold a tune if it had been hit with a ray that turned sound into solid matter. The only way he could endure it without punching anyone before the tournament even started was by telling himself it was just psychological warfare and turning his processor elsewhere.

            Motormaster held onto the memory of Megatron’s and Starscream’s shared pride to keep himself in check. It was a kind of ideal romance—maybe not by Autobot standards, but definitely by Decepticon ones. He knew his chosen wouldn’t take the same option, wouldn’t enjoy the fight, and wouldn’t like being called in front of all those mechs. But he hoped he would receive the same spirit of the response, the same undisguised desire.

            Besides, his gestalt already knew Motormaster could wreck them all in battle. The statement in taking the tradition wouldn’t be the same. And maybe that could have inspired some guilt, built on a sense that he was bullying his chosen into being his mate the same way he had to knuckle the rest of them into following orders most of the time, but it didn’t. Motormaster was going to show them that he could beat _the rest of the planet_ into shape for his love.

            There was only a miliklik of silence between the merciful end of the hymns and the audience erupting into a roar, dulled by the distance to the arena where the combatants stood. The matchups for the first round of the tournament were about to be announced, and the crowd was having as much trouble containing themselves as Motormaster was. He just wanted to get on with it and bash in some faceplates in the name of love, but the officials were taking their time booting up the only two uncovered screens in the stadium.

            Motormaster was up against Blitzwing in the first round, as he found out. As much as he had wanted an officially sanctioned opportunity to rip an Autobot a new exhaust port, taking down a traitor wasn’t a bad compromise. It probably helped that theirs would be the first match of the round and that, even if it killed him a little to admit it, Blitzwing was a big enough threat that it would be better to knock him out of the competition sooner.

            The rest of the festival’s entrants were herded back into the holding chambers while Motormaster and Blitzwing moved into position in the set arena, about the distance of a shuttle-former’s height from one another. Their expressions were tight, and they crouched into starting positions, ready to launch themselves at each other at a moment’s notice. Motormaster was just itching for the start signal to set them loose.

            A loud beep initiated the match, and Blitzwing charged. Motormaster stood his ground, waiting. When Blitzwing was in range, Motormaster grabbed him by the barrel of his main gun and used his own momentum to swing him over his helm. Blitzwing landed on his aft, hard. The sound of his collision with Cybertron’s metal surface reverberated loud enough to reach the back of the audience.

            Blitzwing didn’t let it stun him for long. He wrapped his arms around Motormaster’s legs and dug his fingers into a seam, twisting a few inner wires. Motormaster fell to his knees, and Blitzwing took the chance to tackle him to the ground. The two of them wrestled, trying to pin the other down and claim their place in the next round.

            Motormaster underestimated his opponent’s weight. Now that he thought about it, Blitzwing had been able to carry his whole gestalt before. That took strong, heavy plating. He knew Blitzwing was going to be a challenge, but he needed more of a leg-up than he initially accounted for.

            When Blitzwing slammed him down hard enough to make his helm ring, Motormaster gritted his teeth and rode the pain out. He gathered up all of his rage at Blitzwing’s abandonment of the Decepticons and Galvatron and the idea that maybe this was all leading up to another lie or disappointment, and he channeled it into the fight. Motormaster freed an arm from Blitzwing’s grasp, reeled it back, and jabbed his fingers into the triple-changer’s optics.

 

            If you asked Drag Strip after the fact, his vocalizer definitely hadn’t hiccupped when energon started running down Blitzwing’s faceplate. He was just doing such a good job of out-screaming the Aerialbots—after beating them at their silence match, of course—that he decided to give them a second to try to catch up to the power of his voice. Obviously.

            It had absolutely nothing to do with the fear that flared out from his E.M.-field and side of the gestalt-link. That had to do with the confections Wildrider was knocking in his direction, threatening to ruin his nice finish. Clearly, none of it was from remembering that everything Motormaster did on the field could be done to him; Drag Strip was too brave and awesome to be worried about something like that.

            Drag Strip thought Motormaster’s participation in the Festival of Mortilus was hilarious. Big, bad Motormaster brought to his knees by love, too much of a coward to just say his feelings outright, and had to hide behind…What did Dead End call it? A “primitive courtship ritual wrapped up in spiritual nonsense”? It really threw a wrench in his tough-mech reputation, regardless of how much skid-plate he was kicking.

            It would be a lot less hilarious if Drag Strip thought Motormaster was fighting for him. Drag Strip knew himself to be an irresistible piece of tailpipe, and it was fun to get the recognition he deserved, but he didn’t really need that attention from a piece of scrap like Motormaster. Drag Strip deserved the acclaim that came with being the victor or their chosen, but not if _Motormaster_ was the one choosing. Not that he had really met anyone worth letting choose him yet.

            But it was pretty slagging funny when Drag Strip figured out who their gestalt leader had his optics on. Of course the old cog-helm would choose the one mech who wouldn’t appreciate the honor he’d be given. Of course he would be dumb enough to call the mech who doesn’t like being looked at to the front of a crowd. Of course he would choose the mech so paranoid that this attempt to impress him would probably instead be read as a threat.

            Breakdown obviously knew what was coming, too. He’d been especially on-edge lately. Anyone outside their gestalt would probably mistake it for either a temporary panic set off by the nature of the Festival of Mortilus or—for those in-the-know about the infamous Stunticons—the normal feel of his constant anxiety. For those used to the different flavors of Breakdown’s paranoia, it was easier to distinguish between, “Oh scrap, there’s violence coming,” and, “Oh scrap, we’re going to have to be in public,” not to mention any other motives for fear.

            With the emotional levels Breakdown was putting out lately, Drag Strip couldn’t blame Dead End for closing his side of the gestalt-link. The powerful waves of fear could be hard to deal with, even for them, and Dead End just wasn’t strong enough to withstand it like Drag Strip was. Honestly, Drag Strip would pity him if Dead End wasn’t so busy pitying himself already.

            Although, he couldn’t blame Breakdown for watching the match through squinted optics, either. Motormaster’s fight with Blitzwing was probably only stopping short of brutal because of the post-war restrictions on killing. Drag Strip wasn’t having any trouble, of course, because he was better than everyone and he was going to show the Aerialbots that he was the most supportive gestalt member in the audience—not that he needed to prove it.

 

            Blitzwing groped blindly beneath him. Motormaster was still pinned under his weight. Despite the lenses of his optics being shattered, which had to have hurt like the Pit, the triple-changer had somehow maintained the advantage of position. Blitzwing’s servos found themselves around Motormaster’s cowl, and he squeezed. The metal warped around his hold.

            Motormaster grabbed Blitzwing by the gun on his back again and pulled, trying to bend it out of shape in retaliation. Blitzwing pulled them both to their pedes and twisted his frame around, trying to dislodge Motormaster. It was a struggle for Motormaster to find solid footing with Blitzwing swinging him around.

            Letting go of Blitzwing’s gun didn’t help. Motormaster staggered back from the force of Blitzwing’s arch, and before he could recover, Blitzwing located him by sound and leapt at him. Motormaster braced himself against the collision, willing himself not to fall back over.

            Blitzwing ripped at his plating and tore panels away from his arms and chest. Motormaster punched him in the olfactory sensor and kneed him in the abdominal plating. Blitzwing smashed in his window and scratched swaths of paint from his chassis. As long as they stayed locked in close combat, Motormaster’s sight advantage was useless; they were stuck in a back-and-forth.

            Motormaster shoved against Blitzwing’s frame fiercely. Blitzwing pushed back twice as hard. Motormaster allowed himself to be pushed back two feet before he spun out of Blitzwing’s grasp and stepped behind him. As Blitzwing fell forward, Motormaster grabbed his wings and leaned back. The wings strained and groaned before being ripped clean off, earning a scream from the triple-changer and a fresh burst of noise from the crowd. Motormaster stomped on Blitzwing’s spinal strut the moment he hit the ground.

            “I yield!” cried Blitzwing, slamming his servo on the ground. Motormaster pressed his pede into his dorsal plating one last time before backing off so the medics could carry Blitzwing away.

            With his first victory secured and satisfaction pulsing from his spark, Motormaster chanced a look up at his chosen. He wasn’t looking back. Frustration overtook his pride, and Motormaster stormed back into his holding chamber.

            There was a repair station in there for advancing combatants, but Motormaster brushed the medics off and plopped down on a bench. He glared at anyone who dared to look at him. A few snickered as though they had him all figured out, and in that moment, he almost didn’t care that beating the scrap out of them off the field would get him disqualified.

 

            Breakdown pulled his servos away from his optics. “Did he win?”

            “I could have done it faster,” said Drag Strip. “I would have snapped the turret right off Blitzwing’s back before we’d hit the ground the first time.”

            “More like _he_ would have ripped your legs off and beaten you like a drum with them,” laughed Wildrider. He pounded his seat with his fists, E.M.-field flaring restlessness over everyone within range. It wasn’t hard to figure out how badly he was handling being in the audience.

            Drag Strip scoffed. “After all this time we’ve known each other, I can’t believe you still underestimate me. I could take on anyone helm-to-helm, even you.”

            “And get your helm ripped off,” said Dead End.

            Offense swept over their fields, and Drag Strip crossed his arms. “No way. I may be a racecar, but I was made for squashing as well as racing.”

            “And Blitzwing is big enough to squash you.”

            “I don’t know _what_ your problem is, Deaders, but you need to get the frag over it.”

            Dead End’s field flashed across the other three Stunticon’s—briefly, but enough to startle them all after how long he’d kept it drawn tight—washing them in irritation for a milliklik. “Leave me alone,” grumbled Dead End, and then he turned away from them, shutting them out once more.


	3. In the Greenroom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Motormaster vs Inferno in the second round, and Motormaster really should have had his injuries treated.
> 
> Tensions grow between the Stunticons. Can they go any higher? With this gestalt, you can bet on it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't heard the wicked awesome Menasor and Motormaster themes from Transformers: Devastation, you should listen to them. This isn't exactly a, "Hey, you should listen to them while reading this chapter," but if you want to, I'd personally listen to Menasor's theme during the fight(s) between Motormaster and Inferno (and Dead End and Drag Strip).
> 
> Also, for the Tumblr crowd, this is the "pissbaby" chapter.

            If Wildrider didn’t get a chance to move around soon, they were going to have a serious problem on their servos. There was a reason he was never included in stealth missions, and he always hated when he had to keep still for Motormaster. Keeping still made his plating itch, the kind of itch that could only be scratched by busting something up or stabbing someone. Having to withstand the itch because of Big Meanie only made it worse.

            The only place Wildrider felt comfortable anymore was at work, where they _paid_ him to drive around and wreck things. First, it had been as a demolition expert for a construction company, but they let him off for “reckless disregard for fellow lifeforms” or some scrap. Then, and more permanently, he was picked up for a stunt driving show. Wildrider had never been more in his element. He could be out in a wide space, driving wild and leaping over obstacles, smashing crates and crushing drones.

            Still, even with a fun job like that, he couldn’t afford to move out of the Stunticons’ shared apartment yet. Living together in that tiny space was a nightmare. The rooms were so small and enclosed, Wildrider felt suffocated going home after work. He was constantly having to step over his gestalt-mates, and sleeping in one room together was more fun when they were doing it by choice and not from a lack of space.

            But Wildrider didn’t know if it was better or worse to not have an outlet in their pathetic excuse for a home on Cybertron or to have all the space and mechs to squash _right there_ and not having access to them. It wasn’t fair that he had to sit there while Brawl kicked in Bugbite’s skid-plate, Snapdragon and Grimlock locked jaws with one another, Vortex and Blades tangled rotors, or Sunstreaker got his aft handed to him by Chromia. It wasn’t fair that Wildrider had to fake a calmness he didn’t feel when his servos were starting to shake from how much he wanted to hit something, and stealing mechs’ snacks just wasn’t doing it anymore.

            “Fine, _frag_ , just _go_ ,” Drag Strip suddenly snapped. “Quit agitating my field and just…go…run laps around the concession stands or something.” He flapped a servo at Wildrider. “We’ll comm. you when Motormaster is back on the field. Maybe you can bring Deaders something for the stick up his aft.”

            Wildrider couldn’t have given a flying frag what was up with Dead End, but he didn’t need telling twice to take his chance at freedom. He vaulted over the back of their row and took off for the nearest exit. He barely noticed the way Slingshot followed him out with his optics.

 

            Motormaster squeezed dents into the bench below him. It wasn’t right that he had to feel so strongly all the time. He was supposed to be the center of his gestalt, the one keeping everything together, the one keeping everyone else in line. He could do it—had been doing it for _vorns_ by that point—but that didn’t suddenly make it easy. It was a constant struggle not to let his emotions carry him too far in one direction or another and dooming their gestalt forever. He hated that he had this flaw in his coding.

            Not that he blamed Megatron for it at all! Motormaster would sooner throw himself into the smelter than find fault in his glorious leader. Megatron obviously had a perfect vision for him that didn’t translate perfectly into Motormaster’s programming. If anything, it had to be a glitch in Vector Sigma that gave him emotional issues. If it wasn’t Vector Sigma, then it was Motormaster’s own fault he wasn’t as good a warrior as Megatron deserved.

            He could only feel worse for how bad he was getting recently. Motormaster knew he’d been to lower lows, like after the defeat of Unicron when Decepticons had been banned entirely from Cybertron. Starving, stranded on an unfamiliar planet, lost without his one true ruler, he wasn’t thinking clearly and had let himself be led by false sovereigns. But even if he wasn’t yet to that low again, he could feel himself slipping. And he knew he could pinpoint the start of his latest slip in sanity to the day he announced his entrance to that fragging tournament.

            It should have been great. Motormaster gathered his gestalt together and said, “Listen up, I’ve entered the Festival of Mortilus, and you’re all going to be there. You hear me? I’m choosing one of you when I win.” But none of the reactions were what he’d wanted.

            “Ew.”

            “I—I—um…Well, I’m sure that will be…”

            “Do I get to punch something?”

            Dead End’s reaction was probably the worst. His side of the gestalt-link had slammed closed before Motormaster had finished the first sentence of his announcement, and by the time the others spoke up, he had his olfactory sensor buried in his datapad. Motormaster wasn’t even worth a word, and that burned him up inside.

            “That novel more important than your gestalt-mates, Dead End?”

            “I didn’t think I had anything worth contributing,” Dead End said without looking up.

            “Drag Strip comments whether we give a frag or not.”

            “ _Hey!_ ”

            “The least you could do is say something,” said Motormaster, ignoring Drag Strip’s protests.

            “Fine.” Dead End drummed his fingers idly on the datapad and kept his visor tilted down. “It all seems a little pointless, doesn’t it? If you choose one of us, there is only one reasonable answer. If he wants to reject you, he will never take the fight. We all know you can crush us. If he wants to accept you, why would he say yes when he could get out of living in this hovel with the rest of us for a whole year?”

            Part of Motormaster really wanted to strangle Dead End for that. Part of him kept him holding back, even when his anger rose from burning to sweltering. “Why take the year if the feeling’s mutual? Don’t you know what it’s like to feel something so strongly it’s unbearable?”

            Dead End finally glanced up from his datapad, but it was only for a moment. “It’s me, Motormaster. Everything is unbearable.”

            Motormaster raised a fist. He wanted to knock the mask and visor right off Dead End’s faceplate. Then he wouldn’t have anything to hide behind when he acted all superior to the other Stunticons. But if Motormaster actually went through with the punch, he’d just be proving Dead End’s point. Plus, he’ be undermining the work that had been put into advocating for ex-‘Cons to be welcomed into the Festival of Mortilus based on their ability to show restraint outside of a sports arena.

            At the same time, he wanted to show Dead End what it was really like to live with everything unbearable. Motormaster knew what it was like for the smallest thing to spike his anger up to circuitry-damaging levels. Knew what it was like to have the hint of a criticism of Megatron send him spiraling into a crushing sense of shame. What it was like to feel excitement and joy so powerful he felt like his spark would give out.

            While Dead End could easily hide behind his facial coverings, Motormaster was expected to keep a solid faceplate through firm-set resolve alone. Dead End could cut himself from the gestalt-link when he felt overwhelmed, but Motormaster’s only option to do that was to cut off his emotions altogether.

            And cutting his emotions off? Could be even worse than feeling like he could die. It was like going around as an empty shell, not able to form opinions on anything and barely being able to make decisions. Sometimes, it would get so bad that he wouldn’t even feel like himself anymore. His empty frame would become detached from his spark, and he would walk through life as a camera, just observing this frame acting out his job, recording whatever automatic responses he gave his gestalt to their statements.

            Motormaster probably only kept himself from slipping into that pit of nothing at the time because Breakdown followed him out of the room, and he was only keeping himself from it during the festival by reminding himself where he was. He had to keep it together until the end of the tournament. He entered the festival in the name of emotion; he had to keep those feelings alive. It would all be pointless if he didn’t.

            “You seem a little tense,” drawled one annoyingly red medic as he approached.

            Motormaster barely spared him a glance. “You think?”

            “That can be hard on your energon pump,” the medic continued, refusing to take the hint, “not to mention the damage to the connecting lines, your spark, the lining of your spark chamber…”

            “I know that. I’m fine. Go away.”

            “Well, unfortunately, I can’t do that. I’m professionally obligated to be a pain in your aft until you get _that_ ,” he said, jabbing a surprisingly sharp claw into the exposed wiring of Motormaster’s pauldron, “looked at and patched up.”

            “I told you, I’m _fine_ ,” Motormaster growled, shaking the medic off.

            “Fine, okay,” the medic said, raising his servos in what might have been a placating gesture if it weren’t for the smirk on his faceplate. He started to back away, but his expression said he was far from done with Motormaster.

 

            Breakdown trembled when Motormaster took the arena again to fight Inferno in the second round. Wildrider hadn’t come back from his run yet, despite Drag Strip’s best efforts to get ahold of him. Dead End wouldn’t even look at him, which normally would be great for Breakdown, except that it meant Dead End was probably slipping further into his dark mood. Worse, Slingshot had disappeared from the row of Aerialbots above, which was bound to mean trouble if Wildrider didn’t get back before Slingshot did.

            It was showing all the signs of being a _very bad_ night, and that was before he had to turn away from Inferno digging his fingers into Motormaster’s damaged pauldron. Even from a distance, Breakdown could recognize those sparks as active wires being pulled out. Breakdown squirmed in his seat when Inferno then pressed his nozzle-servo into the hole and pumped water right into the electrified injury.

            “Idiot,” Dead End hissed. “Why didn’t he get that repaired between battles?”

            “As far as I can tell, he was being almost as much of a fussy newspark as some mechs I could name,” said Drag Strip. “Which you would know if you paid attention to the gestalt-link once in a while.”

            “Mm, yes, because dealing with your alternation of insecurity and overbearing pride is exactly how I want to spend the night cycle.”

            “It’s better than having to deal with _your_ hopeless whining.”

            Breakdown watched Motormaster rip the wings off Inferno’s helm. Inferno twisted around and grabbed Motormaster by the cowl, right over the dents Blitzwing left in the first round, and pulled. The metal crumpled and tore, and Inferno was able to rip it right off and bash Motormaster in the faceplate with it.

            “If you would note that a _closed_ gestalt connection prevents emotional signals from being received _and_ sent…”

            “Like it stops your engine from groaning. Face it, Deaders, you can’t hide everything.”

            Motormaster pulled Inferno down by _his_ cowl and smashed his faceplate against his knee. Inferno latched on to Motormaster’s leg and twisted the exposed energon lines there. Motormaster’s faceplate twisted with pain, but he kicked out until Inferno fell loose. Inferno quickly scrambled to his pedes and made distance between himself and Motormaster.

            “I’m flattered by the attention. Really, Drag Strip. It means so much that you’re listening to the sound of my engine instead of watching the tournament or worrying about your own problems.”

            “It’s called multitasking. You should learn it.”

            “Ah yes, because only paying attention to the things I care about means I am perfectly incapable of splitting my attention. Thank you for pointing that out.”

            Inferno pulled his ladder off his back and swung it back and forth, barely missing Motormaster’s helm the first time and catching him in the knees the second time around. The third time, Motormaster caught it by the top rung and pulled. Inferno was tugged along a step or two before he let go. Motormaster stumbled back and fell on his aft, dropping the ladder as he fell.

            “You act like you’re smarter than everyone else, but you can be such a slag-helm, you know that? You’ve done nothing but be mopey and insulting all night, while _I’m_ the one trying to call Mr. Wreck Happy back to his fragging seat. Why can’t _you_ do something other than angst for once in your function?”

            “U-um, guys?” muttered Breakdown.

            Inferno charged at Motormaster. Motormaster rolled onto his dorsal plating and kicked out, using his pedes to throw Inferno over his frame. Inferno tumbled back and hit his helm hard on the back of his cowl, but sparks shot from Motormaster’s knees, and the Stunticon leader was unsteady on his pedes when he got up.

            Motormaster picked up Inferno’s ladder by the middle rung and dragged it across the ground. He was moving slowly, but Inferno was clearly still a little dazed by the blow to his helm and the whiplash it caused.

            “You presume that because I have the gestalt-link closed that I’m making no effort at all. That’s your problem, Drag Strip. You want to believe you are the only mech capable of doing anything, then get angry with the rest of us when you think you are the only one making the effort.”

            “Guys,” Breakdown tried again, a little more forcefully. It was difficult with his mounting panic.

            Motormaster smacked Inferno across the faceplate with the ladder. Inferno fell forward. Motormaster brought the ladder around again and struck him in the side of his cowl. Inferno made a grab for the ladder, but Motormaster’s leverage on it only made Inferno get tugged along the ground on Motormaster’s next swing before the ladder was jerked out of the firetruck’s grip again.

            “Maybe I feel like I’m the only one making an effort because you’ve been over there sniveling the whole time!” shouted Drag Strip.

            Oh no. This wasn’t good. This was really, _really_ not good. Now, everyone around them was staring. Breakdown’s engine was starting to rumble with fear. He always hated the staring. “ _Guys_ ,” he said sharply.

            Motormaster stumbled, and Breakdown wasn’t completely sure if it was from the damage to his stabilizers or from the jolt of terror Breakdown had inadvertently sent down the gestalt-link. In either case, it had given Inferno the opportunity to swing his pedes around and trip Motormaster. With them both on the ground, Inferno got the chance to regain some control of his ladder and bring it crashing down on Motormaster’s helm.

            Drag Strip was startled out of his argument with Dead End, and either the sound of Breakdown’s voice or the slackening of Drag Strip’s jaw must have snapped Dead End out of it, too. Drag Strip jolted back into watching the fight, with Dead End following his cue. Or, at least Breakdown assumed, because even if their visors made it hard to be certain where they were looking, the twitches of their frames seemed to match up with the turns of the battle.

            Motormaster yanked the ladder back and shook it, trying to twist the rungs out of Inferno’s grasp. The servo that wasn’t keeping his own hold on the ladder lashed out and grabbed Inferno by an audial horn. Motormaster squeezed, crushing the horn. Inferno’s optics went white with pain. Motormaster brought down the ladder once through his windshield, once across the jaw, and then pinned his helm between its rails.

            Breakdown couldn’t hear what was going on in the arena, but he guessed by the way the medics came zooming over that Inferno must’ve yielded. He didn’t know that Autobot to give up a fight, and it would’ve had to take some pretty intense pain to make him do it without being knocked out. But Motormaster was wobbling so bad he had to be helped back to the holding room, so Breakdown guessed Inferno got him good, too.

 

            Motormaster was not happy to see the red medic’s I-told-you-so expression when he stumbled back to the holding chamber, but he couldn’t exactly protest, either. He’d let his rage get the better of him, and he knew it. Didn’t mean he liked the medic rubbing it in his faceplate, though.

            “Now, we will be a cooperative patient this time, won’t we?” the medic sing-songed. He started with the fried, open pauldron. “At least I won’t have to wash this wound, will I? It looked like your opponent already took care of that, didn’t he?”

            “Just shut up and fix it, will you?”

            “Touch- _y_. Not to worry; I’ll more than have you in shape by your next fight.” He didn’t say a word while he was patching up Motormaster’s biggest problem areas, but he insisted on humming some awful Earth tune while he did it. “What shall we do about _this_?” he asked when he reached the jagged remains of Motormaster’s cowl.

            Motormaster realized that if they welded it back on, the other entrants would just keep using his cowl as an easy target the way Inferno and Blitzwing had. But leaving the torn scrap wouldn’t be much better, and it might scratch up his plating if he tried to incorporate transformation in a later fight. Besides, he’d had a recent update in his transformation sequence that made both the full cowl and its remnants more of a nuisance than an important feature.

            “Cut ‘em off,” he ordered the medic.

            “As you wish,” the medic replied, pulling out a scalpel. “The name’s Knock Out, by the way, in case you’re ever looking for better medical.”

            Motormaster growled, “I didn’t ask.”


	4. A Soliloquy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drag Strip says exactly the wrong thing that ends up with Dead End getting the right help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While the previous chapter had a soft suggestion for music, I'm going to make a stronger recommendation for this one. You should probably listen to ["You Look So Fine" by Garbage](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-kvXfNoTjsY) with Dead End's POV.

            The tension between his gestalt-mates hadn’t died down by the third round, as far as Breakdown could tell. Dead End was obviously close to losing it, whatever it was keeping him closed up, judging by the way he kept clenching and relaxing his servos in his lap. Drag Strip kept turning his faceplate slightly to the side, probably glancing at Dead End from behind the visor. Maybe Dead End was doing the same. Either way, Drag Strip’s E.M.-field was hot with irritation, and Breakdown didn’t need to feel Dead End’s to guess that it probably would be, too.

            Wildrider still hadn’t shown back up, and Breakdown’s concern was spiking. He hadn’t felt any sudden fluctuations in Wildrider’s side of the gestalt-link, so he at least was still online and not in distress, but that could still mean any number of things. Maybe he had run right out of the stadium and kept going. Maybe he and Slingshot had gotten in a fist-fight or elaborate game of tag. Maybe he just didn’t feel like coming back to his seat where his movement would be limited and he’d be miserable. Maybe he just felt what was coming from Drag Strip’s side of the link and decided it was better to stay away.

            Whatever it was, it was making Breakdown panic. Motormaster might be angry with Wildrider for running off on his own. If Motormaster didn’t care, though, that didn’t mean that whatever Wildrider was up to was safe. Anything that kept Wildrider occupied was usually something the Autobots—the former Autobots, that was—wouldn’t approve of.

            Breakdown was distracted from his thoughts by Motormaster and Brawl stepping into the arena for the next match. It was hard to decide which was more startling to look at: Motormaster without his cowl or Brawl without his tank-gun. Both changes made sense with the matches they watched, but it was a little like seeing a mech walk in without a helm.

            Drag Strip laughed at their leader’s new look and elbowed Breakdown in the side. “Motormaster looks pretty fetching without that box around his helm, eh, Breakdown?”

            “I-I guess,” Breakdown offered weakly. He watched Motormaster and Brawl grapple with each other, hoping Drag Strip would get the hint not to push.

            He didn’t. “Aw, come on. You’ve gotta have an opinion. Motormaster’s doing this all in the name of courtship. A new look has to have something to do with that.”

            “Or it’s a tactical decision,” said Dead End. He’d moved from clenching his fists to squeezing his seat, like air just wasn’t enough to keep holding him back anymore.

            “Maybe,” Drag Strip said dismissively, “but I think it’s still important. And I asked for _Breakdown’s_ opinion, not yours.”

            Breakdown ducked his helm. “Why does my opinion matter?”

            “Are you that dense?” scoffed Drag Strip. “It’s pretty obvious that Motormaster’s going to call your designation on the victor’s stand.”

            “If he gets that far,” grumbled Dead End. Drag Strip ignored him and stared intently at Breakdown.

            “You don’t know that,” said Breakdown. He could feel his faceplate heating, and even if it didn’t produce the “blush” it would on a human expression, Drag Strip was invading his personal space enough that Breakdown was sure he could feel it, too.  “Motormaster never told you who he was fighting for.”

            Drag Strip shrugged and grinned. “Maybe not, but you were the one who followed him out and calmed him down when Dead End slagged him off. You were the last one to see him before we left for the festival. And I think it’s safe to say he wasn’t looking at me or Wildrider when he beat Blitzwing.”

            “None of that means anything,” Dead End snapped. “So he talked to Breakdown a few times. Big deal! And he could have been looking at any mech.”

            Slowly, the smile dropped from Drag Strip’s faceplate, and his jaw hung limp. Then, after a moment, he broke into a fit of giggles worthy of Wildrider. “Holy frag bolts! I can’t believe it! You’re _jealous_. You’re actually jealous!”

            Breakdown squirmed. He didn’t like where this was headed at all. His plating was tightening the longer Drag Strip laughed, and he could see Dead End starting to form fists again. Breakdown stared down into the arena, where it was awful and violent, but at least it wasn’t the wreck waiting to happen between his gestalt-mates.

            “Drop it,” growled Dead End.

            “A fleshling’s chance in a meat-grinder, Deaders,” cackled Drag Strip. “You know, I’ve always admired your taste in polish, but now I see you pay for it with _fragging awful_ taste in mechs!”

            Dead End whipped up from his seat, and the dam burst on his control. His E.M.-field and gestalt-link both flooded every mech within a ten-foot radius with emotions: despair, mortification, indignation, and an undercurrent of yearning. His servos posed, vibrating, in mimicry of strangling a mech. Then, just as quickly as he’d stood, Dead End threw his servos to his sides and bolted from the stadium.

            Breakdown started to follow him, but Drag Strip caught him by the elbow and shook his helm. There was something that almost resembled regret in his field, but it was tempered with bitterness. Breakdown wanted to tell him off for pushing Dead End to the breaking point in the first place, but he couldn’t seem to get the words out. Drag Strip pulled him back to his seat. Breakdown stared after Dead End, guiltily, watching mechs turn their helms when Dead End passed.

 

            Dead End rushed down the access stairs, barely paying attention to the mechs he bumped into in his mad dash to just get away from everyone. Stupid. He was so stupid for thinking he could hold himself back until the tournament was over or Motormaster lost. He was so stupid for feeling anything about Motormaster entering the festival. He was stupid for feeling anything for Motormaster beyond the obligation of a gestalt-mate.

            Love was a primitive emotion driven—not by the disgusting urge to mate as with _humans_ , though that would be infinitely worse—by the pathetic need for attachment and cooperation with other mechanical lifeforms to survive. It was a drive he should have been spared. As a member of a gestalt team, Dead End already had to cooperate with them, whether he held emotional attachment to them or not. But like an absolute moron, he had formed an attachment. He felt that putrid _affection_.

            When Motormaster had announced his entry into the Festival of Mortilus, he had felt the only thing worse than love: hope. Dead End had long found solace in the knowledge that the entire universe was completely, totally hopeless. There was a certainty in knowing that absolutely nothing would last and everyone would die one day. As long as there was no hope, there was nothing to lose.

            So he closed his gestalt-link and pulled in his E.M.-field before the others could figure out his horrible secret. It wreaked havoc on his systems to keep his emotions internalized for so long without an outlet, but he did it because he had to. If Motormaster didn’t choose him (he probably wouldn’t; Drag Strip was probably right about it being Breakdown), it would just make their gestalt’s dynamic even worse. Dead End knew the others were going to be relentless about it with any case.

            Now that he had cracked, he could only regain control of one or the other. It took him a klik, but he shut the gestalt-link back off before he could get lost in Breakdown’s worry, Wildrider’s glee, Motormaster’s confusion, and Drag Strip’s…whatever. His E.M.-field was still whipped into a frenzy, earning him stares from every direction. Dead End ducked into the nearest dark corner he could find, slumped against the wall, and wished everyone else would just move on with their worthless functions.

            If he wasn’t already being torn apart by the rolling mess of anguish and humiliation, Dead End might have felt guilty for wishing Motormaster would lose each round. What did he care if Motormaster would be aggravated? What did he care if the other former Decepticons would never let them live it down? What did he care if the whole stadium spontaneously combusted?

            But the horrible truth of the matter was that he _did_ care. Dead End wanted Motormaster to dominate the whole tournament, wanted to see him beat whatever passed for a processor out of Brawl. He wanted to feel the swoop of triumph overtake the gloom that was always swarming his spark. He wanted to be there to embrace Motormaster in his victory, and, yes, permitted the opportunity, do more than embrace.

            Dead End was so wrapped up in his own self-torture that he didn’t even notice the approach of two mechs until their fields were brushing right up against his. His plating tightened on instinct, but neither of the mechs attacked. Skydive merely took a spot by his side against the wall, projecting a carefully neutral aura through his E.M.-field. Fireflight stayed further on the periphery of his senses, but projected a cheery innocence that made Dead End bristle.

            At first, none of them said anything. Dead End was giving his best effort to ignore them, and neither of them appeared inclined to push him. That just irritated him more. He wished they would press him into a fight. At least then, he could blow off some steam and potentially get himself kicked out of the stadium. “What do you want?” he finally snapped, crossing his arms over his chest defensively.

            “You seemed upset back there,” replied Skydive.

            “You think?”

            “We wanted to see if there was anything we could do to make it better,” chirped Fireflight.

            “You Aerialbots have been our enemies for vorns. You should know by now that, with me, nothing ever gets better.”

            “There aren’t enemies on the restored Cybertron.” Evidently, Dead End’s skeptical look managed to translate through the visor, because Skydive revised his statement to, “There _shouldn’t_ be enemies on Cybertron. I’ve read too much about history to believe the last Cybertronian war is past, but it’s good to hope that we can build towards something better with cooperation.”

            Dead End flinched and turned away. “Hope only breeds expectations to be disappointed.”

            “No, it doesn’t!” said Fireflight, lurching forward. “Hope gives you something to hold onto and dream about when things get tough.”

            “When things get tough, it usually just proves that I was right.”

            Skydive gave him an appraising look. “What do you see in Motormaster anyway?”

            “Come again?”

            “Well, you seem really broken up about the idea of being without him, but you also seem pretty convinced that you’re going to have to be. I’m just not sure I see why Motormaster is worth the trouble. He’s moody; he’s violent; he’s—”

            “Everything a good Decepticon should be,” said Dead End. “Strong. Loyal. Determined. Has a great strategical mind. Always improving. Yes, he’s moody, but who in my gestalt isn’t?”

            “You could live without the violence, though,” said Fireflight.

            Dead End couldn’t help it; he started laughing. The sound was bitter and strangled, but it was laughter nonetheless. Fireflight’s E.M.-field resonated with surprise, but Skydive’s stayed steady. “When,” choked out Dead End, “have you ever known me to become motivated without explosions, gunfire, or a fist aimed at my helm? Violence doesn’t always mean to my kind what it means to yours.”

            Fireflight was still obviously uncomfortable, but there wasn’t judgement in his discomfort, and that surprised Dead End. “So, what makes you think he wouldn’t want you?”

            “Besides being a natural built cynic? In my lifetime,” Dead End said, counting off on his fingers, “I have been defeated in countless battles, paraded in front of Autobots like a trophy, locked up, banished to _Chaar_ where even the energy leeches were starving and mechs fought for scraps, brought back to Cybertron to live in a cramped apartment that has organic matter growing in corners they shouldn’t be, and accosted on the street like a criminal. You want me to believe that something good could happen for a change?”

            Skydive replied, “But none of that is a reflection on you. It’s a reflection on—and I say this while still fully supporting our victory—an _Autobot_ failure to treat our former enemies with compassion.”

            “None of it explains why a mech wouldn’t want you,” agreed Fireflight. “You’re smart; you have a sweet alt.-mode; your finish is always so shiny…”

            “I’m dreary; I’m despondent; I’m critical…”

            “You’re tenacious,” said Skydive, picking up the slack from his gestalt-mate. “You’re perceptive. You don’t accept false confidence; you just need to learn to take the truth when it’s positive, too.” He paused, shifting a little closer to Dead End. “We’re not asking you to suddenly shift your whole personality. Just…try not to distress until the result of the tournament is in?”

            And then Dead End did something that made him feel even stupider than falling in love: for the first time in his function, he started to cry. Fat tears of coolant filled up his visor and leaked from its edges. Skydive reached over and pulled off his visor while Fireflight took care of his mask. Dead End felt ashamed and tried to turn away, but the duo of Aerialbots just pulsed kindness and caring at him from both sides.

            The sudden thunder of more pedes headed their way reached them. Drag Strip, Breakdown, and Silverbolt burst into their corner. Silverbolt’s field was calm and placating, but Breakdown’s projected a mix of fear and protectiveness while Drag Strip’s was pure righteous fury.

            “Okay,” growled Drag Strip, “I don’t know what you’re planning to do to him, but get the frag away from our—are you crying?” He seemed to only have just become aware of Dead End’s state.

            “How nice of you to come looking for me,” Dead End said dryly. “I hadn’t realized that Motormaster would appreciate all of his gestalt-mates going missing at once.”

            “His fight ended,” Drag Strip retorted. “He beat Brawl, in case you were wondering. Are you crying?”

            “Yes, I think we have established that I am experiencing a novel physiological reaction to my emotional state.” Dead End gave him a flat look and wiped a tear from his faceplate. Despite his verbal reaction, however, he reopened the gestalt-link and let his mixture of lingering sadness and growing comfort drift in.

            Drag Strip’s side of the link met him with relief. “Well, quit blubbering like a newspark, and let’s go. You had me thinking these Autobozos were stripping you down for spare parts.”

            Dead End sent gratitude through his E.M.-field to Fireflight and Skydive before extricating himself and his facial coverings from them. He was about to say something when everyone in their group jolted.

            Silverbolt was the first to react, letting out an exasperated sigh. “Looks like Slingshot and Wildrider found each other.”

            “Took them long enough,” said Drag Strip.

            “It’s a pretty big stadium,” Silverbolt continued. “We’ll need to split up to find them.”

            Dead End grabbed Skydive by the wrist. “I’m searching with him.” He ignored the shock coming through the gestalt-link. “He’s the only one I trust has a working processor at the moment, and I might actually be able to stand working with him. Temporarily.”

            Drag Strip muttered, “Traitor,” but he pulled a microfiber cloth out of his subspace and tossed it to Dead End. Then, he pivoted on his heels, grabbed Breakdown, and marched away. Dead End wiped down his faceplate and replaced his mask and visor before heading off with Skydive to look around.

 

            If Drag Strip knew one thing, it was that when he found Wildrider, he was going to throttle him for getting into trouble. He had one simple instruction, and that was to be back for Motormaster’s fights. It wasn’t hard to follow, and not following it was going to get them in so much trouble if Drag Strip couldn’t drag his stupid aft back to his seat in time—which, if he couldn’t, would totally be Wildrider’s fault, not his.

            Drag Strip would be the first one to find him, too, because frag Dead End’s judgement of processors. He was faster, smarter, and stronger than dumb ol’ Skydive. He could go even faster if the dumb stadium and its immediate surroundings weren’t No Alt zones. But he could manage, and even with Breakdown as his partner, he could manage better than Dead End and Skydive or Silverbolt and Fireflight.

            Although, he was admittedly glad to see Dead End back to his normal, manageably depressed self. He would be gladder if Wildrider weren’t a disobedient fragger and moment ruiner.

            Several Enforcers whizzing past them nearly knocked Breakdown into Drag Strip, but Drag Strip caught him before they could both go tumbling to the ground. “Hey! Watch where you’re going!” Drag Strip started to chase after them, but Breakdown held him back.

            “Maybe we shouldn’t get in their way,” said Breakdown. “Let’s just go around—”

            “No way! They almost made you scratch my paint,” he complained. After a pause to think, he added, “Besides, if there are Enforcers and Wildrider’s gestalt-link is going haywire, there might be a connection.” Drag Strip was truly the master of deduction. He started dragging Breakdown forward, ignoring the trepidation brushing up against his field.


	5. Rising Action

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Motormaster feels lost; Silverbolt could use some highgrade about now; and a wild Wildrider appears!

            Motormaster had no idea what was going on with his gestalt-mates, but he didn’t even realize that there _was_ something going on at all until about halfway through his brawl with Brawl. Between Knock Out patching his injuries—which he did with surprising thoroughness despite the dwindling time between rounds of the tournament—and his own stewing concerns, he just had no way of knowing there were problems to be aware of.

            There was the gestalt-link, sure, but that only transmitted strong emotions, not full thoughts. It took a stronger bond than theirs to manage that. Wildrider wasn’t transmitting anything, and Dead End had been keeping his side of the link closed for well over a quartex. As for Drag Strip and Breakdown, for all he knew, Drag Strip’s rising irritation was just from not being in the limelight for so long, and Breakdown’s anxiety could easily be explained away by the strength of Drag Strip’s irritation spurring him on. The only way Motormaster could tell it was any more than that was Dead End letting loose.

            Without the distraction of concern, beating Brawl should have been easy. The Combaticons had usually proven to be laughable opponents, even if he pretended to ignore Menasor taking out Bruticus in one punch. Of course, why should he pretend when it was so slagging hilarious? The only gestalt team that was more of a joke was Devastator, but at least the Constructicons had the excuse of being an early attempt—a prototype.

            The moment the beep for the start of the challenge sounded, Brawl charged at him with a fist raised. Motormaster raced to meet him in the middle of the arena. When Brawl launched his punch, Motormaster grabbed him by the wrist, pulled him closer, and dealt an uppercut right to the jaw.

            Brawl staggered back, grabbing the cables on the back of Motormaster’s neck as he went and yanking him around, sending a sharp jolt up his sensors. Motormaster lashed a servo for the cables on Brawl’s neck in turn. That left them at a standstill. If Brawl tried anything, Motormaster would rip out his connections and vice versa. Their only option was to agree to let go. When Motormaster felt Brawl loosening his grip, he did the same.

            The moment he got his opportunity, Motormaster punched Brawl in the chestplate. Before Brawl could retaliate, Motormaster clasped his servos together and swung them into the side of Brawl’s helm. A trickle of amusement leaked over from Drag Strip’s side of the gestalt-link, and Motormaster assumed he was just enjoying watching a Combaticon get his aft handed to him. Without pausing to wonder about other motivations, Motormaster continued slamming Brawl from every angle.

            It was only when the wall in Dead End’s gestalt-link came crumbling down that Motormaster faltered. He was frozen in place by the sudden influx of sorrow, shame, and offense—and something underneath he couldn’t quite process. It overwhelmed his systems, wiping out his thoughts and making his energon run cold. His fist hung in the air in an incomplete punch. When he could force himself to move, it was only to turn towards his team’s seats, just in time to see Dead End flee the stadium.

            Brawl took advantage of his distraction to recover and deal a hard kick to the middle of Motormaster’s chassis, one that made his armor rattle. While Motormaster stumbled, Brawl swung one pede behind his legs and tripped him up. Motormaster fell, and Brawl cracked him in the jaw when his helm was level with his chestplate. Brawl kicked him again in the side when Motormaster hit the ground. Motormaster’s frame jerked with the force.

            By the time Dead End’s gestalt-link closed up again, Motormaster was still disoriented and reeling from the blows, physical and not. He tried to pull himself to his pedes, but Brawl knocked him back with his sonic blaster, leaving a horrible ringing in his helm and aggravating his patched injuries all over again. Not fair. Nonlethal weapons were allowed, but everyone else had to give up their blades and guns, and it wasn’t fair. Motormaster’s servos curled reflexively, wishing his sword was there like in the good old days.

            Motormaster gritted his dentae. He embraced what had been a distraction before and made it his power. Dead End wasn’t just his usual sad self; he was in anguish and thought he had to keep it from the rest of them. If Motormaster found out it had anything to do with Drag Strip’s earlier amusement, he was going to kick Drag Strip’s aft into the next vorn. After he ripped the sonic blaster from Brawl’s frame and shoved it down his intake, that was.

            The next time Brawl tried to kick him, Motormaster grabbed his leg and twisted it. Brawl lost balance and went toppling to the ground. Motormaster transformed into truck mode, and when Brawl pushed himself back up, Motormaster spun his vehicle mode around and smacked him with his trailer.

            While Motormaster took a lap around the outer ring of the arena to build momentum, Brawl transformed into tank mode. They drove at each other, speeding for a head-on collision. This was what Motormaster had been waiting for. He felt alive. It was like being on the open road again or bearing down the battlefield to smash down some Autoscum.

            At the last moment, Motormaster transformed back into root-mode and kicked off from the ground. He hurdled over Brawl, twisted his frame around, transformed back into alt.-mode in midair, and landed facing the opposite direction. Motormaster took off again and rammed Brawl from behind while the tank was still recovering from his maneuver. Motormaster’s cab crunched in, but it was worth it for the way Brawl flipped forward out of alt.-mode.

            Brawl sprawled, faceplate-down on the ground when Motormaster transformed back to root-mode and stomped over. Before Brawl had the chance to get up, Motormaster grabbed him by the helm, hauled up the upper half of his frame until he was almost bent backwards at a ninety degree angle, and slammed his helm down on the ground. When Brawl pushed back against him, Motormaster pulled up his helm and smashed it against the ground again. He kept repeating the motion until energon splattered beneath them and the medics pulled them apart.

            Motormaster struggled against the servos guiding him away, but he was held in a surprisingly strong grip for such small servos. “I think you got him, Big M.” He snapped out of his frenzy when he realized it was Knock Out speaking. Part of him wanted to smack the annoying red medic away. His energon still felt hot in his lines. But Knock Out’s voice reminded Motormaster where he was, and he let himself be led back to the holding chamber.

            “Things got pretty intense out there. I think you could stand to cool down a little.”

            “I never asked for your opinion.”

            Knock Out shrugged and shoved him onto a medical slab for his next set of repairs. “Medic. Giving my opinion whether you want it or not is part of the job description.”

            Motormaster grumbled, but lied back and let Knock Out start popping dents. “My gestalt keeps making trouble for themselves.” He didn’t know why he said it, but it felt like it had to be said.

            Knock Out paused, just for a moment, but long enough that it stopped Motormaster from powering down his optics. “Gestalt?”

            “Combiner team. Mechs who merge to become a giant warrior.”

            “Oh, right, _those_. I was wondering about some of your strange transformation seams.”

            “You would know if you had fought in the war.”

            “I did.” At Motormaster’s surprised reaction, Knock Out looked up from his work and smirked. “Did you really think the war never spread beyond Earth or Cybertron until Galvatron entered the picture? The _Bigger_ M had me stationed on Velocitron.”

            “I wondered why a speed model would be a medic.”

            “I’m just that good.”

            Motormaster was surprised to find himself relaxing around Knock Out. How much of that was because the familiar narcissism reminded him of Drag Strip and how much was because Dead End reopened his side of the link again at that moment with much more soothing emotions attached, Motormaster wasn’t sure. What he did know was that he felt more at ease, right until he heard a door open and new pedes trampling in.

            Knock Out pushed him down by the chestplate. “The other holding room must be filling up with the defeated. All they’re doing now is moving the remaining combatants into the same area to make more room for those who need treatment.”

            That just made Motormaster tense more. Discontent was starting to rise over the gestalt-link again, so on top of lying there—uselessly—while something was stirring within his team, he also had to put up with being in the same holding chamber as Air Raid. That was asking for the fourth round of the tournament to start off field.

            Evidently, Knock Out noticed because he pulsed calmness from his EM-field. It wasn’t entirely effective, thanks to the high reactivity of Motormaster’s emotions, but it gave him something to hang onto and focus on. “If you need anything,” said Knock Out, “as long as it isn’t illegal and wouldn’t be grounds for disqualification, I’m sure I could have someone dispatched for you. Maybe to check on that gestalt of yours?”

            Motormaster nodded. When Knock Out got off his comm., Motormaster asked, “Why are you helping me out so much?”

            “What can I say? I just want to see my favorite patient be the best he can be.”

            “I already have a chosen, thanks.”

            Knock Out laughed. “And I’m flattered. It’s true that I prefer them _heavy duty_ , but you aren’t exactly my type. You’re a bit too…shouty.”

            “And you’re flat-out annoying,” said Motormaster. “But then, so is my team.”

 

            Silverbolt could be a patient mech. He swore he could, but his gestalt-mates seemed to enjoy testing him on that. Fireflight was starting to hum again, and there was a faraway look in his optics. That could only mean he had drifted into yet another daydream. That had to be the third time since they started their search. “Fireflight, focus!” Silverbolt said, grabbing his gestalt-mate by the pauldrons. “We have to keep a look out for Slingshot, and you can’t do that with your helm in the clouds.”

            It took a klik, but Fireflight shook his helm, and his optics cleared. “Sorry, ‘Bolt. I just keep thinking about Dead End and Motormaster. Dead End’s love for Motormaster is just so pure; it’s so sweet!”

            “I’m pretty sure you’ve just invented an idea of their relationship in your helm.” At best, Fireflight might have seen a glimmer of something positive in his conversation with Dead End and blew it way out of proportion. Or, it was entirely possible that he was right about Dead End’s feelings, but he was assuming something on Motormaster’s part with the limited perspective he had. “Decepticons don’t really _do_ sweet, or have you forgotten that?”

            “Even bad guys have to have loved ones,” argued Fireflight. “Even Megatron had Starscream, and I heard that when they weren’t fighting, they were actually pretty affectionate. Not that I think everyone should have what they had, because when it was bad, it was _really_ bad, but…” He sighed wistfully. “I can just see how happy Dead End’s going to be when Motormaster calls his name.”

            Silverbolt pinched the bridge of his olfactory sensor. “One, are you really rooting for Motormaster over _Air Raid_ , our own _gestalt-mate?_ Two, how do you know that Motormaster _would_ pick Dead End? You heard what started the whole argument between the Stunticons; they seem pretty sure that Motormaster has his sights on Breakdown.”

            That didn’t have exactly the intended effect. Fireflight pouted, and his frame quivered. His optics went unfocused again, this time with disappointment. “But Dead End just loves him so much, it wouldn’t be fair if Motormaster chose someone else. It would crush him. But I don’t want to get in the way of Motormaster and Breakdown being happy, either…”

            Oh no. “Fireflight? Come on, Fireflight. We have bigger things to worry about than…” Silverbolt held back a groan when his gestalt-mate started to cry. “Hey, look, maybe I’m wrong. Maybe there’s a very happy future ahead for all of them. But until we can get Slingshot out of trouble, no one has that chance. Okay?”

            “O-okay,” said Fireflight, sniffling. He rubbed his cheekplates dry, and then they both started walking again.

 

            Slingshot was toast. Wildrider had driven laps around the stadium until he could trace his own tracks over again, but it hadn’t been enough to take off the edge. He still needed to crush something, and the Aerialbot made an excellent target.

            He got every one of Drag Strip’s comm. attempts and ignored them. What did he care if Motormaster was slagged off? Motormaster was going to look like he crawled out of the junkyard when this was all said and done anyway. It’s not like he was going to be in any condition to punish them, or have the processor to, either, when he would be distracted with his chosen. Wildrider didn’t really get it, but if Motormaster wanted to hold himself back with mushy feelings, then whatever, as long as it didn’t mess with his own fun.

            “Don’t mess with my fun,” was the first and only principle of interacting with Wildrider. Part of him wanted to start a fight with Drag Strip, just to show him exactly what he thought about being told to come back to his seat, but that would involve coming back to his seat. So, instead, Wildrider went inside and immediately figured out how to use the support beams of the stadium as his own personal jungle gym.

            He didn’t know exactly how much time had passed when Slingshot finally caught up with him, but it was the best part of the night. The Aerialbot obviously had no idea where Wildrider was, between the facts that Slingshot wouldn’t look over his helm, that they were just far enough from the nearest lantern, and that it was getting darker as the night progressed. But Slingshot was clearly sending an invitation, too, by the way he shouted, “‘Ey! ‘Con scum! Come out and show yourself already, hah?”

            Wildrider lunged down from his perch, right at Slingshot, and tackled him to the ground. Slingshot raked his fingers down Wildrider’s faceplate. Wildrider just laughed right through it and smashed in Slingshot’s cockpit against the ground.

            Slingshot grabbed him by the horns on the sides of his helm and twisted, forcing Wildrider to roll to the side. For good measure, Slingshot ripped the horns right off. Wildrider’s optics crackled with static, but as far as he was concerned, it wasn’t a good time until someone’s vision had fuzzed.

            Wildrider reached around and pulled Slingshot’s wings until they ripped off. Then, he tossed them aside and groped for the rest of the Aerialbot’s kibble. Slingshot rolled out of his grasp and leapt to his pedes. When he found an opening to, he stomped down on Wildrider’s neck. Wildrider wheezed out what might have been another cackle.

            Wildrider grabbed the pede crushing his neck and wrenched it around, making Slingshot buckle at the knee. Wildrider rolled onto his pedes and caught Slingshot by the throat. Slingshot jabbed Wildrider’s elbow with both servos from opposite sides, forcing Wildrider to let go.

            The two of them went back and forth like this for a while, even gathering a small audience. Wildrider didn’t pay them much mind. What he did mind, however, was the pack of Enforcers heading straight towards them. Not far behind them, he saw Drag Strip and Breakdown, and he groaned. Of course they would be coming to ruin his fun.

            Somewhere along the way, Drag Strip broke free from Breakdown—or was it the other way around? Maybe Breakdown’s reluctance to get into the crowd had won out and Drag Strip wasn’t dragging him around anymore. In any case, Breakdown abandoned ship while Drag Strip transformed into alt.-mode and sped up the wall, around the Enforcers, and flung himself at Wildrider and Slingshot.

            “Fragging seriously!?” screeched Drag Strip, seizing Wildrider by his chestplate and punching him in the faceplate. “You have only two rules: be back for the matches, and don’t get in trouble. You can’t follow two simple rules?”

            Wildrider grinned and squeezed holes in his gestalt-mate’s back shoulder tires. “No, I can’t. Woopsy.”

            Slingshot made a loud cry as he charged at them, and Drag Strip quickly slipped out of the way so he barreled right into Wildrider. But Wildrider snatched his arm as they collided, so they all fell into a chaotic heap of limbs from which they couldn’t untangle themselves before the Enforcers arrived.

            Wildrider jittered with excitement, daring the Enforcers to get involved. It could almost feel like the war was back. If he squinted, he could pretend anyone of them was Prowl, and he would get the joy of being the one to offline him this time. When the Enforcers hauled him off the floor, Wildrider writhed against them. He even got to snap his jaws in one’s faceplate and leave some pretty deep cuts in another.

            Even with all his struggling, though, one of them somehow managed to clap something metal on one wrist, then another. A jolt shot through his circuitry. Oh slag, now he remembered what these were: stasis cuffs. He remembered being escorted back to Cybertron in them. Not fun, and not fair. They wouldn’t even let him move without someone else dragging him along.

            All Wildrider could move was his faceplate, only enough to emote, so he didn’t even know where Drag Strip and Slingshot were until the Enforcers were holding them in front of him. They had stasis cuffs on them, too. At least Wildrider could take some joy in that, even if he couldn’t do anything else to get rid of his awful itch for action, they were stuck in this pit with him.

            The Enforcers led them away to a temporary cell down one of the corridors of the under-stadium area. All three of them were thrown into the same cell, protected by energon bars, but not before one of the Enforcers groped Drag Strip and listened to him squawk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter currently sets the high for "most scenes cut." I'll probably get into some of the scenes that have been cut from the story in more detail at the end of the last chapter, but for now...
> 
> One scene would have been a longer dialogue between Knock Out and Motormaster, including Motormaster name-dropping the Stunticons, and Knock Out being like, "Oh, that explains the _stunt_ you pulled with that midair transformation."
> 
> Another would have included Fireflight's actual daydream about Motormaster and Dead End.
> 
> The last would have involved a confrontation between Air Raid and Motormaster in the holding chamber that would have to be broken up before one (or both) of them did something to get them disqualified.
> 
> Generally, these ones were cut for pace and/or tone.


	6. Waiting in the Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Motormaster and Air Raid get the fight they've been waiting for.
> 
> Meanwhile, Dead End plans a break out, and Breakdown is the main player.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> During their conversation, Dead End and Skydive are referencing Brennus' sack of Rome and later defeat by Marcus Furius Camillus. Essentially, the Romans wanted to buy back their freedom from Brennus, but then they were like, "What the fuck, you're cheating us on the price," and Brennus was like, "Lol, fuck you, losers." But then, Camillus was like, "Fuck your price; I'm gonna kick your ass and win back Rome."
> 
> Chapter 4 is still the only one I think you really need to listen to a specific song or musical piece with, but I do have a few suggestions. Like the recommendation about listening to Menasor's theme from Transformers: Devastation with the fight in chapter 3, I would recommend Motormaster's theme for the fight here. You could also listen to "Battle Against a True Hero" from Undertale for the whole chapter. [Here's a fifteen-minute version to make that easier.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bPCMJC1Ig6s) Or, you could listen to "Battle With a True Hero" for most of the chapter, then switch to "Meglovania" for the fight.
> 
> I'm just really fascinated by the way what you're listening to changes how you read something...or vice-versa: how reading something can change how you hear what you're listening to.

            “Yes, hello? Flatline, have you seen any—Yes, I’m sure you’re very busy. I’m sure repairing the losers puts so much more stress on you than getting winners back on their pedes in time. What? No, I will not comm. Pharma for you! Comm. him yourself.”

            _Click_. “Minerva! Yes, I’m thrilled to hear your voice, too. Your patients must be thriving under such delicate servos…Sarcastic? Moi? _Never_. Listen, I was looking for—Well, frag you, too.”

            _Click_. “If they put anyone on civilian care duty, it had to have been you. Nonono, I promise that wasn’t an insult this time, First Aid. I was looking for some patients that might have been sent your way…Yes, I see. Well, if anyone sends the Stunticons over, give me a comm.”

            Knock Out pinched his nasal ridge and stepped back into the holding chamber. He’d taken a step out to check on a few contacts for information, but his efforts had proved fruitless thus far. Not to mention how rude and annoying the rest of the medical community could be. The only grace there was that he didn’t have to deal with Scalpel. Eugh.

            On his way back to the medical station, Knock Out was stopped by a jet-former…Air Raid, he thought he remembered from the registry of tournament entrants. Knock Out took one look at the mech, and now that he knew what he was looking for, he knew a combiner on sight. “Can I help you?” Knock Out asked.

            “Only if you’re going to drop the favoritism.” Air Raid glanced sharply at Motormaster. “He’s not the only one with a team to look out for, and my gestalt-link is buzzing like crazy. Either you cut the scrap and help me, too, or I’ll—”

            “Report me for misconduct? I haven’t done a thing to warrant disciplinary action. Hit me? You’ll be disqualified from the tournament.”

            “I’ll…” His optics darted around for a response. Knock Out was prepared to be amused until Air Raid settled on, “I’ll scratch your finish so bad you won’t have time to fix it all until the Festival is over.”

            Knock Out gaped. “You are the devious one, aren’t you? Fine. Give me a designation, and I’ll pass it along to my contacts.”

            “Aerialbots. Pleasure doing business with you, Doc Knock.”

            After updating his colleagues on the new set of mechs to look out for, Knock Out took his place at the medical station, welcoming the next advancing competitor in and patching them up. He felt Motormaster staring at him and shook his helm.

 

            “ _Vae victis_ ,” said Skydive. The silent question in Dead End’s E.M.-field made him pause. “It means—”

            “‘Woe to the conquered.’ I know,” said Dead End. “Might makes right; winners set the price of freedom; losers aren’t allowed to complain about their lot in life. I was questioning why you felt the need to say it.”

            “What you said before, about the kind of treatment you’ve faced as a Decepticon…It made me think about how much we former Autobots have embraced _vae victis_ as a philosophy. Don’t try to tell me the Decepticons wouldn’t have done the same. But isn’t that all the more reason we should have risen above this kind of thing?”

            There are a number of things Dead End could have said to him at that. He could have told Skydive to frag off. He could have told him that the Autobots would never be above the Decepticons. Could have told him that all this omphaloskepsis was pointless.

            Instead, Dead End just shrugged and said, “You know Cybertron’s history as well as I do. There have always been cycles of Decepticon and Autobot rule. This is merely the first of our wars to begin under Autobot rule _and_ end under it. I think, whether anyone had declared, ‘ _Vae victis_ ,’ or not, they have to expect the other side would respond, ‘ _Non auro, sed ferro, recuperanda est patria_.’”

            They kept walking, scanning every nook and cranny for a sign of their gestalt-mates, while Skydive chewed on Dead End’s reply. Dead End hated Autobots, as far as Skydive was aware, and was only tolerating their temporary teamwork because of an intellectual compatibility. There was no way he was justifying the actions of a faction he hated. There was definite possibility that he was just being pessimistic again, saying that horrible living conditions are just something to “expect.”

            But Skydive couldn’t help thinking there was one last meaning that could be drawn from Dead End’s words, whether Dead End had meant to communicate it or not. The victors had to _expect_ that the defeated would rise up and fight back. How would you prevent that, without taking everything away from those who would rise up? There were alternatives to simply reintegrating their enemies as though the war never happened or continuing to punish them well after the war ended; it was just a matter of acknowledging the possibilities.

            Dead End stopped Skydive with a servo to his chestplate. “Breakdown just comm.-ed in, and you won’t believe where Wildrider, Slingshot, and Drag Strip landed themselves.”

            “They got arrested, didn’t they?”

            “Comm. your leader. We need to meet up with Breakdown.” Dead End looked one way, then the other, before pulling Skydive off to the side. He knelt down and braced his servos together. Skydive stared at him curiously. Dead End jerked his helm upwards at the support beams over them. “We need to get out of sight. Now.”

 

            Breakdown clung to his beam like a lifeline. The others were taking their time to reach him, and he was not liking the fact that the Aerialbots now outnumbered them. He didn’t know what they did to Dead End to make him trust them, but it meant Breakdown had to be twice as vigilant to make up for it.

            When the others finally swung and climbed over to him, Breakdown did a quick scan for any obvious signs of hacking on Dead End. He found nothing, but he still felt wary. Dead End pulsed stability at him through the gestalt-link.

            “What do you have?” demanded Silverbolt. Breakdown felt like a squishy being threatened for their fueling money.

            “Turn your optics off,” said Dead End. The Aerialbots just looked at him. Dead End flared his E.M.-field at them in warning, but it made Breakdown shiver, too. “Trust me on this; he’ll be more willing to talk if you can’t see him.”

            Fireflight whined, “But it’s already so dark.”

            “ _Trust me on this_.”

            Breakdown watched Skydive power down his optics, then Fireflight, and last—and only after glaring suspiciously at both Stunticons—Silverbolt. Breakdown didn’t know how they’d earned that look; he had more reason to be suspicious of Silverbolt than the other way around.

            Dead End turned his helm to the side so, even with the visor, Breakdown didn’t feel like he was being watched. “Tell us what you saw,” he said.

            “Drag Strip and I saw enforcers. We followed them and found Wildrider and Slingshot fighting. Drag Strip sped in and got himself arrested with them.”

            “Did you see where they were taken,” asked Silverbolt.

            Breakdown flinched, but Dead End comforted him over the link. “No.”

            Disappointment and dismay pushed against his E.M.-field, and Breakdown pressed his frame even tighter against his support beam. It wasn’t his fault he stayed out of trouble. None of them would know what happened if he’d been caught, and now they were taking it out on him for helping!

            Dead End cycled air slowly through his vents. “Alright, here is what we will do. I will jump down and cause a disturbance. When I’m arrested, Breakdown will follow me to find out where the others are—if there’s a cell in the stadium or if they have been taken off-site. When he knows where we are, he will alert the rest of you. Then, he can use his engine to bust us out.”

            “I don’t like this plan, _Decepticon_ ,” said Silverbolt. “How do we know you won’t pick off Slingshot while your gestalt outnumbers him, then start on the rest of us once you’re free?”

            “If I was planning to play a game of numbers, why would I leave Breakdown with you?”

            Silverbolt seemed swayed by that, but he wasn’t convinced just yet. “They got arrested for a reason. Are we really going to break the law just for our gestalts?”

            “An Autobot’s arrest won’t be used as a political argument.” Dead End let that statement speak for itself. “For my gestalt, I’m willing to face that.”

            “ _I_ don’t like this idea,” said Breakdown. “You’re leaving me alone with them. What if something goes wrong?” Why would he trust Autobots, former or not, to keep him safe and not attack him? Even without that, there were so many ways the plan could fail. Dead End could be taken somewhere completely separate from their gestalt-mates. They could fall and bust key components. Breakdown could get caught, and he might not see any of them ever again.

            “If something goes wrong,” Dead End replied, “then I expect you all to retreat immediately. And remember, Breakdown is the important one. If we can’t save anyone else, make sure at least he is there when Motormaster wins.”

            Fireflight jolted. “Wait, are you still convinced—”

            Before he could finish his question, Dead End had leapt down and punched the first mech he saw in the faceplate. It wasn’t long before the Enforcers came to take him away, and Breakdown had to move out to follow them.

 

            Dead End didn’t resist when they slapped the stasis cuffs on him. He braced himself for the paralyzing zap up his circuits and let himself be led away. The Enforcers steered him down twists and turns to a set of stairs, then down the dark and narrow stairway to a set of cells under the stadium.

            One of the officers ran a servo up Dead End’s chestplate. “You know, you have a really nice finish…Not a bad frame…What’s with the mask? Faceplate not live up to the rest of you?” The Enforcer pried off his facial coverings and whistled. “Looks more like you think you’re just too pretty to be seen.”

            The other Enforcer said, “Quit teasing ‘im, Spur.” But he tilted Dead End’s chin to get a look at him and ended up whistling, too. “That is an unnaturally pretty faceplate. Think he had it designed specially?”

            “With the way he carries himself? Has to be an ex-‘Con. Ain’t no ex-‘Con got the shanix for that kind of customization.” The first officer—Spur, or whatever that was short for—rubbed her servos down Dead End’s frame to his thighs. She spread his legs and pressed herself between them. “Let us ‘preciate this pretty little frame of yours, and maybe we can look the other way on your little tantrum back there.”

            Dead End spat. He couldn’t turn his helm, but at that point, he didn’t care which one of them he hit. The second Enforcer wiped the splotch of oral lubricant off his faceplate and shared a look with Spur. Together, they opened a cell and tossed Dead End inside, knocking him right into the seated frames of Slingshot, Wildrider, and Drag Strip. When the bars were re-energized, Spur threw Dead End’s visor on the ground and stomped on it. Her partner crushed his mask in his servo and dropped it next to the shattered glass.

            All was silent in the cell until they were certain the Enforcers were gone. The imprisoned mechs just lied in their heap of frozen frames. Then, Drag Strip snapped, “Wow, Deaders, what the frag did you do?”

            “Refused to sell my chassis for a freedom I didn’t want to begin with.”

            “Not want freedom?” scoffed Slingshot. “More like you didn’t deserve it. What got you locked up with us in the first place, slag-helm?”

            “I had myself locked up with you because I chose to.”

            “Quit playing games with us, Dead End,” growled Wildrider. “Why did you want to be locked up with us?”

            “Because now Breakdown is on his way with Silverbolt, Skydive, and Fireflight as backup.” Ignoring their reactions, Dead End tried to focus on one specific line within the gestalt-link. If his chronometer was working, it wasn’t long until the next round of the tournament. He sent encouragement down the line to Motormaster. As much as he hurt, Dead End didn’t want to see an Autobot claim victory. He wanted them all to see what an ex-‘Con could be.

 

            Motormaster glared at Air Raid from his seat on a bench, and Air Raid glared back. Until they got into the arena, the most they could do was have Cybertron’s most intense staring match. It was clear that Air Raid was itching for the match as much as he was, and Motormaster was ready to get the opponent that meant the most of all out of the way. Knock Out’s presence kept them both in check, even though he didn’t have a word back on any of their respective gestalt-mates most of the time.

            Until he did, and they both knew the moment Knock Out did because he seemed reluctant to say a word to them. “Motormaster, Air Raid, it seems that a few of your gestalt members might have gotten themselves a teensy-bit…arrested.” He held up his servos when they both rose from their seats. “Don’t shoot the messenger, please!”

            “Whatever happened, it was probably _your_ team’s fault,” Air Raid said, jabbing a finger at Motormaster. “Mortilus knows how much your kind like helping him out.”

            “Maybe you should keep that in mind when I’m pounding your faceplate into the ground, punk. Mortilus favors a Decepticon.”

            “Save it for the arena, you two,” said Knock Out. “Seriously, you don’t have that much longer to wait.”

            It was that much harder to hold back when Motormaster felt encouragement surging through the gestalt-link from Dead End. The signal was mixed with pain, but that didn’t pull him from the moment. It was like Dead End was singing from the other end of the line to beat the scrap out of Air Raid, and frag if Motormaster didn’t want to. But if Dead End had the attention to spur him on, that meant that either they were in deep trouble or Dead End had it under control.

            Either way, Knock Out was right: the round wasn’t that far off, and luckily for them both, they were the first match of the round. They entered the arena with as much space between them as they could afford. It was better that they didn’t even give themselves the temptation to punch each other before the starting buzzer.

            But the moment that buzzer beeped, they were off. Motormaster transformed into truck mode and tore down the arena. Air Raid transformed into jet mode and took to the sky, just level with the penultimate row of the stadium. Then, he transformed back into root-mode and dove, pede-first, down at Motormaster. Motormaster veered out of the way, and Air Raid was forced to transform back to avoid a disastrous collision with the ground.

            When Air Raid landed, Motormaster rammed into his side at top speed. Part of one wing buckled in, and Air Raid flipped belly-up. Taking root-mode again, Air Raid leapt to his pedes. When Motormaster speeded for him again, Air Raid bounded onto his trailer and knelt down. Motormaster spun and swerved, trying to throw him off.

            Air Raid smashed his servos through Motormaster’s windshield and grabbed his steering wheel, twisting it. Motormaster struggled to regain control of his wheels. With Air Raid pulling one way and Motormaster tugging himself the other, it wasn’t long until he went careening out of control and slammed into the stands. The seats were elevated high enough that none of the spectators were hit, but several of them had their seats shaken with the impact.

            Motormaster transformed into root-mode and struggled to his pedes. He wobbled. Each step forward was a chore. Air Raid sneered and preened, but waited for Motormaster to make the next move. Motormaster shook out the last of the dizziness and charged with an arm raised to the level of his optics. Air Raid swiveled out of the way at the last milliklik, sending Motormaster tumbling. He gave the Stunticon leader a swift kick in the skidplate for good measure.

            Air Raid tried to stamp down on Motormaster’s spinal strut, but Motormaster rolled back out of the way and into the stabilizer Air Raid had all of his weight on. Air Raid crashed down on top of him. Motormaster pushed to his pedes, knocking the Aerialbot off. Air Raid crab walked back as fast as his limbs would carry him and bounced back to standing when he’d made enough distance from his opponent.

            Motormaster swung punch after punch at Air Raid. Air Raid ducked under one, leaned out of the way of another, parried the next, always just avoiding being hit. But in his dodging, he couldn’t quite slip close enough to land a hit on Motormaster, either. They danced along the arena, spinning round and round with each near-miss.

            Finally, Motormaster kicked out, catching Air Raid in the abdominal plating. When he lurched forward, Motormaster grabbed him by the pauldron and pulled him closer while his free servo threw a punch straight for his olfactory sensor. The resultant _crack_ and the spurt of energon to go with it brought him satisfaction.

            But if he thought they were done, he was wrong. Air Raid jabbed him in the neck and pinched a sensitive energon line under his pauldron. Motormaster master grabbed his servo and twisted until his wrist and elbow protested, and Air Raid yanked him forward and bit his wrist. When Motormaster released him, Air Raid grabbed him by the faceplate and bashed their helms together. Even with his processor spitting errors at him, Motormaster found the strength and clarity to trap Air Raid in a headlock.

            Not a moment later, Air Raid transformed into jet mode and blasted them both into the air. Motormaster contorted himself around until he was hanging by his legs backwards from Air Raid’s nosecone and he could grab his wings. Air Raid took them high into the air, then promptly took a nosedive, spiraling back down to Cybertron, flying like he could drill Motormaster into the core of the planet. Motormaster clung on tight.

            When they dropped low enough, Motormaster wrenched Air Raid’s wings until both mechs flipped around and they were falling with Air Raid facing the planet. Air Raid tried to slow their descent, but it was too late this time. They crashed hard. Air Raid’s cockpit shattered. As smoke rose from the wreckage, all the Aerialbot could do was groan.

 

            Breakdown revved his engine. If he could just focus long enough to get his alpha ability to cooperate with him, taking out the energon bars would be a cinch. Unfortunately, he was having a bit of performance anxiety. He knew the free Aerialbots were watching him from the shadows, and—while Dead End couldn’t turn to look from where he was smooshed across their frames—he knew Drag Strip, Wildrider, and Slingshot were staring at him.

            He cycled a deep vent, quashed the building anxiety as much as he could, and really cranked up his engine. Finally, the technology disruption mechanism triggered. The energon bars flickered out. Breakdown transformed to root-mode and entered the cell. Once he pulled Dead End into a sitting position, he transformed back and got on getting off their stasis cuffs.

            Before he could free even one of them, however, there was a series of shouts, and then the guards came rushing in. “Hey! Transform, and put your servos where we can see them!”

            “Go,” Dead End said. “Get out of here before they have the chance to catch you. We’ll figure out a new way out of here.”

            “N-not a chance,” said Breakdown, rumbling his engine harder. “You’re the one who has to—” Before he could finish his sentence, there was a horrible burning sensation up his plating, and then he blacked out.


	7. Emergency Intermission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silverbolt struggles with the concept of grey morality. Breakdown breaks down. Somehow, it ends up with a guard squealing like a youngling.

            It was hard to tell which was harder to bear: the sight of Breakdown having his circuits fried or the excruciating pain being transmitted from Air Raid’s side of the gestalt-link. Silverbolt couldn’t stand the phantom pricklings of damage to wings other than his own, and feeling Skydive and Fireflight squirming next to him from the sensation did nothing to help. On the other servo, watching the Stunticons lie twitching and helpless wasn’t exactly easy.

            Silverbolt clapped a servo over Fireflight’s intake before he had the chance to cry out and expose their position to the Enforcers. They failed their one job, to keep Breakdown safe, but it wouldn’t help anyone if they got locked up, too. The only thing to do was wait until the Enforcers left and figure out what to do from there.

            He hated to admit it, but he was growing a sense of respect for the Stunticons. It made no sense. Silverbolt had a strict, upright sense of morals. He felt like slag just for trying to break his gestalt-mate out of a cell. Crime should be punished, no matter who committed it. But he couldn’t help but see some sense of honor in the way the Stunticons conducted themselves: Drag Strip’s protectiveness for his team, Dead End’s sacrifice, and Breakdown’s refusal to abandon them even when it cost him his own freedom.

            Worse, as much as he wanted to believe the Enforcers were just doing their job, he couldn’t deny that their actions seemed…less than honorable. Keeping prisoners in stasis cuffs while they were already secure in a cell was strange. The position they found Dead End in was suspicious. But the force they used on Breakdown, even accounting for his alpha ability, was downright excessive.

            His gestalt-mates had, evidently, already come to the conclusion that there was something unethical afoot. “We can’t just stand by and let them get away with this,” hissed Skydive.

            “We’re not,” Silverbolt assured. “We just need to figure out a new way around. If we fight them, we’ll be no better than criminals.”

            Skydive reasoned, “But if we go over their helms, not only can we get Slingshot and the Stunticons free, we can expose an injustice in the system!”

            “Not the whole system, just…these Enforcers in particular.”

            From the way Skydive’s E.M.-field and gestalt-link quivered, Silverbolt knew this was just one of those issues of justice and morality they were not going to agree on. As much as Silverbolt tried to be the voice of reason for his gestalt, he knew there were just some things he would never convince them of, and he had to let them come to their own conclusions.

            Fireflight wriggled out of Silverbolt’s hold and asked, “But who are we going to take this to? Ultra Magnus is off-duty tonight, and we can’t wait until morning to act on this.”

            “Even if he wasn’t,” added Skydive, “he has his servos full with training Strongarm on top of his regular duties. I think we should take this to Optimus Prime and Elita-1.”

            “Optimus’ and Elita’s duties are greater than Ultra Magnus’,” argued Silverbolt. He started leading them back out of the below-stadium dungeon. “Even if some of those are purely ceremonial, talking to them now would mean disrupting the whole Festival of Mortilus just for five mechs.”

            “Appealing to their religious and ceremonial duties is exactly why I think our best chance is with them. You saw how the match-ups for each round were arranged, and you know what we felt over the gestalt-link. Motormaster beat Air Raid. I don’t have a doubt in my processor that he’s going to win, and he’s going to choose someone from his team.”

            “But if we use that as our argument, that completely leaves out Slingshot,” argued Silverbolt. “It’s better to focus on the legal and ethical misconduct being practiced.”

             “Why can’t we just appeal to…everything?” asked Fireflight.

            Silverbolt climbed down next to a set of access stairs and reached up to help his gestalt-mates down. “Because _what_ we appeal to affects _who_ we appeal to. Ultra Magnus isn’t going to care much about who Motormaster would choose _if_ he wins. He would care about the letter of the law.”

            “And Optimus and Elita would care about whether those laws are actually just or in need of adjustment,” said Skydive.

            Before Silverbolt could retort, a new voice broke into their conversation, “Good luck getting in to see Optimus and Elita.” Streetwise materialized from the shadows, right in front of their optics. “There’s something funny about three mechs sneaking around, talking about the outcome of a competition and discussing high authorities…”

            Silverbolt drew his E.M.-field in tight. “You know us, Streetwise. We’re not trying to cause trouble; we’re trying to stop it.”

            “I know you, Silverbolt. I know how to read mechs like you, too, and I know when secrets are being held from me.” Streetwise smiled, but there was nothing warm or friendly in the gesture. “Would you like to explain how one of my fellow officers came in for patches to his energon lines in association to an incident involving two Stunticons and an Aerialbot, or should I ask them?” He eyed Skydive and Fireflight, who each drew in their fields in turn.

            “You already know it involved two Stunticons and an Aerialbot,” Silverbolt countered. “Sounds like you know more than we could tell you.”

            Internally, Silverbolt was warring with himself. He always wanted to give a fellow Autobot the benefit of the doubt, and he wanted to believe that the Enforcers responsible for the Stunticons’ and Slingshot’s arrest were the exception and not the rule. However, Streetwise’s demeanor put him on edge. From appearing out of nowhere to calling the Enforcers his fellows, Streetwise was just sending out all kinds of bad signals. And with how cryptic he was being while reading the Aerialbots like a datapad, the only Enforcer Silverbolt would have trusted less in that moment was Barricade.

            “Really? Because when you say things about ‘the letter of the law’ and whether or not those laws are fair, I have to wonder what you’ve all been up to.” Streetwise stepped right into Silverbolt’s space and continued, “And if any officers have misbehaved in any way that makes scratching holes in them ‘fair,’ I’d like to know what they’ve done.”

            Silverbolt relaxed, and he felt Skydive and Fireflight do the same at his sides. “It’s not something you can take care of on your own. We need someone higher up the ladder to open up the case, and then we’d be happy to hand it over to you.”

            “Great. Then I’m coming to see Optimus and Elita with you.”

            A wave of surprise escaped Silverbolt’s field. “We hadn’t even decided yet that we were going to Optimus and Elita.”

            “Yes we have,” said Fireflight. He shrugged when Silverbolt looked at him. “I think you’re the only mech voting otherwise at this point, ‘Bolt.”

            Silverbolt looked at the other two and sighed. “I guess I’ve been outvoted on this one.”

 

            When Breakdown came to, their frames had been rearranged from an awkward heap into a more organized cluster. With the stasis cuffs on, none of them could shift a single component but their faceplates, but he could still see the others out of the corner of his optics. None of them seemed to have seen him yet, though.

            “Honestly a brilliant plan, Deaders,” Drag Strip spat, evidently in the middle of a rant. “Our one shot at freedom, and you get him locked up with us. Good going, genius!”

            “Frag off, Drag Strip,” Slingshot snapped. “As far as I can tell, he’s the only mech in your gestalt _capable_ of thought. You said it yourself: Breakdown was a better chance at freedom than anything _you’ve_ come up with. It’s not Dead End’s fault Breakdown was too stupid to get out before the Enforcers got him.”

            Breakdown felt a fresh flare of fury over the gestalt-link. “Don’t say _slag_ about my gestalt, you walking pile of reject scrap!” said Drag Strip. “I’d say Breakdown has a million times the functioning comprehension circuits that you do, if that didn’t involve overestimating your pitiful processing power!”

            “Oh yeah? I’d find better conversation from a pigeonoid than the likes of you.”

            “Because you’d finally have someone on your level, rust-core!”

            “Come on, rust-core? You could do better than that if you had anything other than cesium salami between your audials, fizzle-switch.”

            “Fizzle-switch? The frag are you on about, you faulty circuit breaker?”

            “What I’m on about is that I see you and three of your gestalt-mates locked up in here while mine are free, and only _one_ of you has done anything to get us out of here. At least my mechs have the sense to stay out in the first place.”

            “That’s not sense; that’s cowardice, you—”

            “Would you both _shut the frag up!?_ ” Wildrider interrupted. “It’s bad enough to be stuck in here; I don’t want to have to _listen_ to you slaggers, too.”

            Drag Strip snarled. “If you’d listened to me in the first place, none of us would have ended up here, numb nodes.”

            “That’s the problem with you ‘Con gestalts,” said Slingshot. “No respect for your own.”

            “You’re one to talk, Sling- _snot_.”

            “Don’t start with me again, Brag Drip.”

            “Newsparks, all of you,” muttered Dead End.

            “No,” said Drag Strip. “No, you don’t get to criticize us anymore, Deaders. You fragged up. Bet you’ll be happy to hear someone agree with you for once: everything is hopeless. Oh, wait, you don’t _do_ happy, do you?”

            Being able to see Dead End’s faceplate for once, even if just on the fringes of his vision, was surreal to Breakdown. It was no more revelatory than staring at Dead End’s mask would be. He had long since mastered schooling emotional expression. But the absence of his facial coverings, in many respects, made the lack of expression even more disturbing.

            “Are you all serious?” Breakdown didn’t realize he had spoken until their optics turned on him. “I-instead of collaboratating—”

            “Collaborating,” Dead End corrected.

            “On a way out of here,” continued Breakdown, “y-you’ve been argu-uing over who’s dumber? I-it’s just…that seems dumber than anything. You ha-ad all this time to formerate—”

            “Formulate.”

            Breakdown sent a jolt down the line at being interrupted again. It was really frustrating to have a vocabulary he couldn’t use just because he was too nervous to be articulate. “You had time to form a plan, and you didn’t u-use it.”

            “What do you have to complain about?” asked Dead End. “Motormaster is going to pick you, and they will have to release you.”

            “Why does everyone k-keep _saying_ that? Why do you all think it’s go- _o_ -ing to be _me?_ And why does everyone decide for me that I w-would say _yes?_ ”

            That silenced the cell better than anything before it. Optics darted from one side to another, and even Dead End had the beginnings of something that might resemble surprise on his faceplate. “Uh, well,” said Drag Strip, “it just seemed like you were getting pretty close to motor-breath lately, so it seemed natural…”

            “That I would have an infraturation—”

            “Infatuation,” corrected Dead End.

            “That I’d be in l-love with him?” Breakdown would have shaken his helm if he could have. “I love Motorm-master as a gestalt-mate, same as I l-love the rest of you. Because you’re all a part of me…o-or I’m part of you…It’s like—”

            “It’s like you’re not really whole without each other,” Slingshot finished. “Argh. I still hate you ‘Cons, but…maybe you _do_ get what being a gestalt is after all.”

            Breakdown wasn’t sure how to take that. At least everyone had stopped shouting at each other. It didn’t bring them any closer to a way out, but it was better than endless screaming.

 

            Streetwise found himself leading the Aerialbots more than the other way around. They were the ones with the plan and the information, but it was clear that Streetwise was the only one with any clear idea of the layout of the stadium. It was necessary for security duty.

            And on the matter of security duty, it was one thing to find the stairs to the Balcony of Honor and another to get in while Lancer and Moonracer stood sentry. Lancer had a spear angled over her allotted half of the entrance. Moonracer held a rifle across her chestplate, and she had an expression that might have been called, “adorably serious,” if Streetwise didn’t know just how much damage she could do with that gun.

            “Not another step forward until you state your business here,” said Moonracer.

            Silverbolt started to push to the head of their crowd, but he froze at the sharpening of Moonracer’s optics and the adjustment of her rifle. “We have to see Optimus and Elita on a matter of legal and moral importance,” he said, holding his servos up.

            Moonracer shared a look with Lancer. “Not good enough,” she said. “And if you think we’re going to just let you go out of a shared history with the Autobot cause, you have another thing coming. Elita trusted me to watch this door. I can’t betray that trust for any mech.”

            “Optimus Prime is our creator, and we saved him and Elita in turn.”

            Streetwise winced. Moonracer was notoriously bad at controlling her E.M.-field, and at that moment, her field was wobbling with enough uncertainty to stir whirlpools in his own. “That’s beside the point,” she stammered. “I’m going to need specifics on your purpose here before I—”

            “Let them in, Moonracer,” called Elita’s calm but firm voice from within the box.

            Another flustered flare of Moonracer’s field struck them. “B-but Elita! I’m only trying to do my duty! If it can wait until after the festival…”

            “If the Aerialbots felt that this matter could wait until then, I doubt they would have sought our council now.”

            Moonracer pouted, but she let the Aerialbots and Streetwise pass before following them inside. She kept a wary optic on them while Optimus signaled an emergency intermission between matches. Elita, moving to stand behind her chair, offered a friendly smile and an encouraging pulse from her E.M.-field, but Streetwise found himself awestruck all the same. Being in the presence of Optimus or Elita alone is powerful; they naturally exuded strength, fierce intelligence, and compassion. Together, they were an overwhelming force. It seemed ridiculous that either of them would need a guard, but feeling Moonracer's pride at his dorsal plating made it hard to doubt she could be anywhere else.

            When the tournament was successfully paused, Optimus turned to face them and asked, “What is it you wish to discuss?”

            There was an unspoken agreement that Silverbolt was their spokesmech and that the rest of them would only get involved as necessary. Not knowing much about the situation himself, Streetwise felt more like the bailiff than an advocate. “Optimus, we’ve come to you about the arrest of five mechs: Slingshot, Wildrider, Drag Strip, Dead End, and Breakdown. Four of our former enemies and one of our own gestalt.

            “Three of the Stunticons were arrested in the act of trying to protect their own, and two of those three in an effort to free Slingshot as well. And while they may have committed some minor crime, we wish to stress the fact that it was a minor offense and that their treatment by the arresting Enforcers surpasses what their transgression warrants.”

            Streetwise lifted an optic ridge. He had already gathered new information; the last he’d heard of the event, there were only two Stunticons involved. But instead of calling out the Aerialbots for lying to him before, he said, “I’m here only if an investigation and disciplinary action is ordered.”

            “I reserve judgment until I know the full truth of the matter,” said Optimus. “Silverbolt, you say that Slingshot and Wildrider were arrested on a minor transgression. Would you please clarify?”

            “Slingshot and Wildrider got into a fight. From what little I’ve been able to gather, they and an Enforcer were the only ones harmed.” Silverbolt rubbed his helm. “You know I’m not one to support fighting when you don’t have to, Optimus, but Wildrider and Slingshot are excitable, and letting them loose with a fighting tournament going on...All things considered, they could have done a lot more damage.”

            “Be that as it may,” cut in Elita, “they were still causing a disruption. As they were not involved in the tournament, the Enforcers were only doing their duty by arresting them for fighting.”

            “But we saw them use excessive force,” insisted Fireflight. “Maybe not on Wildrider or Slingshot, but definitely on Dead End and Breakdown! Dead End was sprawled on top of the others when we found him, and when Breakdown came for the others, the Enforcers shocked him hard enough for him to pass out!”

            Streetwise could tell when a couple was communicating through a bond and when they were having a silent conversation just by knowing each other so well. Optimus and Elita were doing the latter. Finally, Optimus said, “That does suggest a need for investigation into the actions of the arresting Enforcers. However, we remain unconvinced of the need to release the mechs involved. I’m sorry, but they will just have to serve out their sentences.”

            Fireflight’s field projected dismay, and Silverbolt’s was simple resignation, but Skydive’s suggested only contemplation. After a moment, Skydive said, “Do you know what condition the Stunticons have been living in? Dead End told us they have organic matter growing from the walls. That’s a potential health risk. We treated the Stunticons with distrust right up until one of our own was on the line, and they offered to help. None of us have been kind on the former Decepticons.”

            Skydive paused again, looking around at each of them. “The humans have done studies on how environment affects the crime rate. What do you think will happen if we don’t offer the Decepticons some form of leniency? It’s been over two hundred vorns since the war ended, and we’re still treating ex-‘Cons like criminals, even before they’ve actually committed any crimes.” He frowned. “Yes, the Stunticons have done wrong, but they’re also _mentally ill_. And did we offer them psychiatric help, or did we throw them out into the planet to watch them implode?”

            No one was keen on speaking after that. There was no doubt that Cybertron would be a worse place had the Decepticons won the war, but acknowledging that there was already a problem in their supposed New Golden Age was difficult. But more than that, none of them wanted to see it regress into a New Great War.

            Before the atmosphere could get too dark, Fireflight started bouncing on his pedes. “Oh! And! _And_ Motormaster was going to choose one of his gestalt-mates if he wins the festival.” He turned on Moonracer then. “We can’t interfere with the festival by telling him his chosen is locked up, can we?”

            Moonracer’s E.M.-field fluctuated wildly. “E-Elita! Tell him that’s not fair! He can’t pull that victor-and-chosen thing on me!”

            As far as Streetwise was concerned, “pulling the victor-and-chosen thing” on Moonracer was perfectly fair. One did not enter the Festival of the Five without expecting everyone to pull it on them for the rest of their function. What _wasn’t_ fair was using Elita’s creator-like fondness for Moonracer to win an argument.

            Elita smothered a laugh with a servo, and even Optimus’ optics smiled. “All right,” said Optimus. “I will allow the Stunticons and Slingshot to be released with a warning this time. However, I must include the condition that, should any of them commit a repeat offense, they will be asked to serve additional time on their sentence.”

            “Thank you, sir,” said Silverbolt. “You won’t regret this decision, I promise.”

            “I wish to add a request that you submit your memory files to Streetwise immediately for his investigation into your claim of misconduct,” said Elita.

            “And if he’s going to let the Stunticons out, he’s going to need backup.” Moonracer rocked on her pedes and avoided everyone’s optics. “I can call in Bluestreak, if you’d like.”

            “Yes, please do. But Streetwise, try not to keep Bluestreak away from home too late.” And there, her voice turned teasing. “Someone has their 100th vorn anniversary coming up.”

            Moonracer covered her faceplate with her gun and cried, “ _Eliiiitaaaaaaaaaa_ ,” and had she been any other mech, Streetwise would have wondered how someone could be bonded for a hundred vorns and still act like a youngling with a crush.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Streetwise's involvement here was really, really easy to settle on because of the "importance of gestalt" theme this fic adopted somewhere along the writing process. Who his backup was going to be literally kept changing right until the last moment.
> 
> Also, this chapter ended up going the way it did because 1) I was having way too much fun writing insults and 2) I realized a few chapters ago that, by my own set up, this fic happens two hundred vorns after the war...and that I was probably going to have to write fic to fill in that time. At least for the Festival(s) of the Five. Whoops.
> 
> So...even though this is the first fic in the series I've written, it happens chronologically last.


	8. Curtain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I did just establish the Stunticons as living in Polyhex just for shits and giggles.

            “Why do I have to be the one to help you check on some ‘Cons when I really, really don’t like them? Well, yeah, Moonracer asked me to do this, but she of all mechs should know better than anyone what a horrible idea this is. I mean, she can feel in my spark that I will never forgive the Decepticons for everything they’ve done, so I don’t know what made her think I would be the best mech for the job.”

            Streetwise was of the school of thought that the proper response to Bluestreak’s endless stream of chatter was to keep responses as short as possible. “Exactly. You don’t like ‘Cons. You won’t be too easy on them.”

            “That would make a lot more sense if this was an arrest, but we’re freeing them, you know? There are other Enforcers across Cybertron that could have been brought here to help you, but Moonracer suggested me. I mean, I’m here, and I’m going to do my duty, but I don’t exactly have to be happy about it, do I?”

            “She trusts your abilities. There’s always the chance the Stunticons use their freedom to do something worse.”

            “So, you needed someone who wouldn’t be too afraid or inexperienced to act if something went wrong. But I don’t know; it still feels weird that I should be here if the Stunticons really don’t try anything immediately. Feels like I need another reason to be here.”

            Streetwise shrugged. “Motormaster and Grimlock are the favorites to win right now. If Motormaster takes it, he’s going to choose another Stunticon.”

            Bluestreak’s doorwings twitched a pattern Streetwise had come to recognize as signifying realization. “Someone pulled the victor-and-chosen thing on her, didn’t they? That explains it better than anything; they found Moonracer’s romantic spot.” But it was clear that the revelation had hit a much more complicated series of buttons for Bluestreak; affection dominated his E.M.-field, but it was mixed with shame and frustration.

            As they approached the in-stadium cells, they were met by Spur and Cogmaster, who seemed startled by their appearance. “Hello, sirs!” greeted Spur, scrambling to attention. “What brings you here on such a quiet night?”

            “You haven’t been out to the stands, have you?” said Streetwise. As he tried to walk past them, Cogmaster stepped in his way. “Problem, officer?”

            “It’s just…” said Spur, flicking her optics at Bluestreak. “He’s supposed to be off-duty, ain’t he? And not in New Iacon. ‘Sides, y’all don’t want to head down there.”

            “Ain’t nothing to see down that way but empty cells,” Cogmaster added.

            “That’s funny,” said Streetwise, “because we have it in good confidence that five mechs were arrested tonight.” He noted the minute fluctuations of their E.M.-fields, the tension in their cables, the twitch in Spur’s lipplates, and the tiny scratches on Cogmaster’s servo. Their behavior alone was enough to know something fishy was going on; it was the little details that really damned them.

            Bluestreak probably didn’t notice everything Streetwise did, but he saw enough. “The two of you have a lot to explain if the cells really are empty. If there weren’t any mechs arrested tonight, then we have to know why there are reports saying that there were arrests, and if there were mechs arrested, then you have to tell us why they aren’t here anymore. You could have moved them to another prison, but you should have sent a request to be processed and approved, and you would have needed a few extra servos to move five mechs. But if you didn’t transfer them, that means that you must have released them, and then you would have to explain why you released them before you were cleared to do so. All of this assumes that the cells actually are empty, as you claim they are.”

            “And you're forbidden to wet your hair for at least 24 hours after getting a perm at the risk of deactivating the ammonium thioglycolate,” said Streetwise. The others just looked at him. “Not even Bluestreak? Okay.”

            “What we meant was,” said Cogwheel, “y’all don’t need to see nothin’ down that way. Y’all have more important places to be, mechs to protect…”

            Spur nodded vigorously and added, “‘Sides, ain’t nothin’ of int’rest down that way. It’s all quiet.”

            Streetwise leaned over to Bluestreak and stage-whispered, “With Stunticons and an Aerialbot? I doubt it.”

            Bluestreak’s doorwings flicked with amusement, but he kept his faceplate and E.M.-field solid. “We’re here on the request of Optimus Prime and Elita-1 themselves to release the Aerialbot Slingshot and the Stunticons Breakdown, Dead End, Drag Strip, and Wildrider. Continuing to refuse us entry is defiance of a direct order from the Prime and consort themselves.”

            Cogmaster hesitated, then stepped aside. Streetwise let Bluestreak head down the corridor first and followed behind him. Spur and Cogmaster trailed after them, still sending tiny signals of nervousness.

            The lack of noise was curious; the only thing Streetwise could hear was the clank of their pedes and the distant hum of energon bars. Only one set, if his audials were calibrated right. If he hadn’t already been convinced that the Aerialbots’ report was true by Spur’s and Cogmaster’s behavior, that absence of sound would have sold him.

            Bluestreak stopped short. “What’s this?” He bent down to examine something on the floor. Streetwise stepped around to the other side and took a few captures with his visor. It looked like there was shattered glass and crumpled metal outside the cell, and if he was recognizing the size and color right, it looked like the remains of Dead End’s facial coverings. Seeing Dead End’s exposed faceplate was confirmation enough for him.

            Streetwise was already noticing a few odd things about the mechs inside the cells, but he wanted to check a few more things about the remains of Dead End’s mask and visor first. The mask had five big dents, right in the shape of a servo. Streetwise looked at the scratches on Cogmaster’s servo, then at the size of his fingers. Then Streetwise examined the pattern of the broken glass. He wouldn’t know until a more thorough analysis could be done, but it seemed doubtful that the visor could have been ground down into such small pieces if it had just fallen.

            While Bluestreak swept the pieces into evidence bags, Streetwise set about deactivating the energon bars. There were a few obvious violations. Firstly, stasis cuffs and inhibitors were only supposed to be on mechs inside cells if they were known to be violent or if they had a specific alpha ability that made breakout a threat. At most, that meant Wildrider and Breakdown should have been cuffed, not the others. Secondly, the paint up Breakdown’s left side was charred and blistered. Thirdly, Wildrider and Slingshot were both in disastrous shape.

            It wasn’t that Streetwise thought Spur and Cogwheel roughed them up. The original incident that sparked the whole issue was a fight between Slingshot and Wildrider, after all. Streetwise was good at deducing who inflicted what damage based on prior incidents, and it seemed to match up with what he’d come to predict from the two of them fighting. No, what bothered Streetwise was that some of the bigger and more painful injuries should have been seen to before they’d been locked up.

            What really got him, though, was when he reached down to release Drag Strip’s stasis cuffs and felt a wave of revulsion from his E.M.-field. Streetwise paused. “Something wrong?”

            “I don’t want you filth touching me,” said Drag Strip. “I’ve had enough of being molested for one day, thanks.”

            Streetwise frowned. “I was just going to take the cuffs off. What do you mean molested?”

            “I mean those dirty afthelms,” and Streetwise could only assume he meant Cogmaster and Spur, “grabbed my aft before they threw me in here, and I’m not keen on being handled like that again.”

            Before Streetwise could reply, Bluestreak whirled on the offending officers and said, “You did _what?_ ”

            “That was nothing compared to the way they touched Dead End,” said Slingshot, and Streetwise felt Dead End’s field recede instantaneously. “They didn’t go all the way or nothing, but I don’t think they would have stopped if he hadn’t made his displeasure crystal clear.”

            Bluestreak’s doorwings hiked up high on his back, and Streetwise would be lying if he told anyone he didn’t pick up the pace on freeing the Stunticons and Slingshot partially out of a need to get them out of Bluestreak’s path immediately. The confrontation probably wouldn’t turn violent, but there were times where the lack of violence could be more terrifying than its presence, and Bluestreak was gearing up to give them a verbal lashing.

            “Let me get this straight,” he began. “You had a mech in stasis cuffs, unable to move or defend himself in any way, and your first thought was, ‘Hey, let’s touch him intimately and assume that he won’t be too terrified to tell us not to, and then let’s not listen to a simple no! Let’s wait until he has to give us a big no!’ Does that sound like proper conduct to you? Because it sounds to me like a criminal offense being perpetrated by the very mechs meant to enforce the law. And let’s pretend for a moment that it hadn’t been intimate…”

 

            Even at a faster pace than usual, Dead End lagged behind the other Stunticons. It wasn’t that he couldn’t keep up with them if he tried or that he wasn’t as eager as they were to take their freedom. He just rarely found the motivation to try, and he found that truer than ever, walking back to the stands.

            Hope was a fickle friend, and Dead End refused to rely on it. Without hope—without that tiny possibility that maybe the festival wasn’t heading towards his spark breaking—there was little pushing him back towards his seat. There was getting to see Motormaster beat down the last few mechs in his way to victory, but that was soured by the fact that there were only a few more mechs between Motormaster and proclaiming his chosen.

            Breakdown’s disinterest in a romantic relationship with Motormaster might have been comforting to a more optimistic mech, but it had nothing to offer Dead End. Even if Breakdown didn’t want Motormaster, Motormaster could still want Breakdown. In the year they would be away from the rest of the gestalt, either Breakdown would be miserable or he would change his mind about Motormaster, and neither was a favorable outcome. There was the possibility that they would come out the other side, Breakdown would reject him, and then Motormaster would move on. Could Dead End really find the positivity to accept being Motormaster’s second choice?

            And he just couldn’t see himself being his first choice. Dead End just wasn’t programmed to think that way. If Motormaster called his name, his processor just might short out. But then he watched Slingshot pass him, and Dead End remembered Skydive’s words of encouragement: “ _Just…try not to distress until the result of the tournament is in._ ” Dead End forced a deep breath of air through his vents, let the words soothe his circuits, and picked up his speed to meet the other Stunticons’.

            Dead End only paused when he reached what had been the Aerialbots’ seats and found them empty aside from Slingshot. Slingshot whipped his helm back and forth, lipplates set in an anxious expression. “They’re probably fine,” said Dead End. When Slingshot only stared at him, he added, “I suppose it’s possible they’ve fallen down the access stairs and cracked vital components, but I find that unlikely. More likely, they are taking their time returning from whatever they did to free us.”

            He could have made a conjecture about how the other Aerialbots managed it based on the lack of activity in the arena and the abundance of activity in the Balcony of Honor. Before he could voice it, Slingshot shifted his weight and cleared his vents. “Don’t talk like that. It’s not like you.” But his frame relaxed, and Dead End took that as his cue to move on.

            Breakdown gave Dead End a tentative smile as he slipped into his seat. Forgetting that his faceplate was exposed and not being much of a mech for expression besides, Dead End brushed his field against Breakdown’s in acknowledgement. Drag Strip reached across Breakdown’s lap and punched Dead End in the arm.

            The fights started back up with a match between some mechs Dead End didn’t recognize. Silverbolt, Skydive, and Fireflight returned sometime after Motormaster knocked Blades out of the running. The rounds were getting shorter and shorter as the night stretched on, and with less time for repairs, the combatants started to show the wear. Motormaster was a canvas of welds and patches before long.

            Finally, the last round came down to Motormaster and Grimlock. Both held themselves steady, but Dead End suspected it was a front. Oh, the pride was genuine, but the strength had to be waning. He couldn’t see it from the stadium, but he was certain Motormaster had to be trembling under all his wrecks and repairs. It seemed unlikely that Grimlock, even as the self-proclaimed King of the Dinobots, would be faring better.

            Nevertheless, they both threw themselves into the battle with whatever well of strength they had left. Dead End had seen war. Even if he was still extremely young by Cybertronian standards, he had already fought and watched countless battles. This tournament, with its restriction on killing, should have seemed feeble in comparison, but watching Motormaster and Grimlock getting locked in combat was just as intense as being on the battlefield again.

            Every hit that landed was audible. As their plating grinded past each other’s, they struck up embers. They were bolted together, barely gaining or losing a decimeter for more than a klik, every attempt to seize space countered in tooth and claw. Through every whip of Grimlock’s tail and snap of his jaws, Motormaster stood firm, but Motormaster found no greater success knocking Grimlock down. And as they fought, they painted each other in electrical burns and spatters of energon.

            Dead End’s servos curled around the lip of his seat. He didn’t even have it in his processor to look at his gestalt-mates, but if he did, he would have seen them take on similar posture. The intensity of the fight consumed the gestalt-link, synchronizing their emotions, to the point where he would have had to concentrate and trace each line individually to figure out where his side of the link ended and the others’ began.

            Maybe that was what pushed Motormaster over the top. Maybe the Stunticons unified in a way they never were, even when they formed Menasor, provided the final burst of energy Motormaster needed to take down Grimlock. Or maybe it was completely incidental, and Grimlock’s reserve of strength and energy just happened to tap out before Motormaster’s did. But in that moment, while they were united, Motormaster managed to throw Grimlock to the ground and stomp the back of his helm.

 

            Motormaster strained to keep his pauldrons straight. He’d lost half his vision to a cracked optic; his left elbow joint had been pierced straight through; and he was sporting large dents in his hip and the right side of his chest plating, along with a litter of smaller ones all over his frame. The pain of so many injuries plagued him to the point where he could no longer distinguish between them. Only the feel of energon trickling down his plating and seeping into his seams let him know he was bleeding at all.

            But like frag he was going to let anyone see how badly he was struggling just to stay on his pedes. He wouldn’t be a Decepticon—dissolution of factions be damned—if he did. He could stand a little longer, long enough for his victory to be acknowledged and for him to proclaim his choice. With some effort, Motormaster turned to face the Balcony of Honor and raised his chin to stare down Optimus Prime and Elita-1.

            “Motormaster,” Optimus Prime began, and the whole audience at once was silenced. It was unclear if he had a microphone or if the force of his voice alone was enough to touch every recess of the stadium, but the strength and clarity of his speech was undeniable. “On this night, Mortilus, He who holds dominion over death and will one day reclaim all of us for the Well, has seen fit to favor you. Tradition dictates you may use this favor to claim courtship of any mech you wish. Whom do you wish to claim for this honor?”

            “In the name of Mortilus, I claim Dead End of Polyhex.”

            A wave of shock hit Motormaster from the gestalt-link, followed by amusement from two other lines. Then, turning back towards the crowd, he watched Wildrider and Drag Strip heft Dead End onto their pauldrons and carry him down the nearest steps to the arena, Breakdown scurrying after them. Motormaster was surprised to see Dead End without his mask and visor, but Dead End’s faceplate betrayed nothing.

            But over the gestalt-link and through his E.M.-field, Dead End was practically screaming his commingled disbelief, joy, and the sadness that always hung about him, no matter the situation, just a part of who he was. Above all that, though, there was yearning and love, and that sent a surge of elation through Motormaster.

            Dead End was impossible. He was too intelligent for his own good; he was withdrawn and reclusive; if he reacted at all, it was usually with a wisecrack or a criticism; and he could be infuriatingly defiant. Some of the same things could be said of Breakdown or Drag Strip—or, yes, even Wildrider. But Dead End wore it all with a quiet dignity all his own, and Motormaster found himself drawn to that.

            Motormaster found himself flashing between certainty and doubt up until that moment. Breakdown covering his optics was just to be expected, but how was he supposed to take Dead End turning away from the arena or running out in the middle of one of his fights? With Dead End pulling away from their gestalt-mates, optics bright and locked on Motormaster’s, though, he was assured once and for all.

            “You can take the year if you still think it’s the ‘only reasonable answer,’” Motormaster told Dead End in a low voice. He already had what he’d wanted: to be met with equal passion.

            But Dead End shook his helm and replied, “Don’t you know what it’s like to love so strongly it’s unbearable?” Then, loud enough for the whole stadium to hear, he announced, “In the name of Mortilus, I accept.”

            They moved together, Motormaster bending down despite the protests in his spinal strut and Dead End reaching up to wrap his arms around Motormaster’s neck. Their lip-components crashed in a beautiful disaster of a kiss, lacking everything in technique that they had in passion, but neither cared. It was already more than either of them dared to hope for, and no kiss could have fit the collision of their personalities better.

            Motormaster’s servos slid from Dead End’s pauldrons down to the back of his thighs. Then, in one swift movement, he straightened his spinal strut and pulled Dead End up to his level. Motormaster’s arms threatened to give out, but he thought it was well worth it for getting the pressure off his dorsal plating and for the way Dead End clung to him.

 

            “I hope the dramatic romantic gesture was worth several solar-cycles on a medical berth, Big M.”

            “Lord Megatron managed more in his moment of victory,” said Motormaster. “I should have been able to.”

            Knock Out laughed, and Breakdown decided it was the prettiest sound he’d ever heard. How much of that was just because Knock Out was the prettiest mech he’d ever seen, Breakdown couldn’t be sure. He liked to think he could trust his own instincts, though, even if he couldn’t trust anyone or anything else.

            The Stunticons had all followed Motormaster when his arm finally quit on him and a medic had to look him over. Dead End sat on the edge of his med-berth, surprisingly serene for a mech who had nearly been dropped on his aft in front of almost all of Cybertron. Drag Strip, Wildrider, and Breakdown were crowded a little ways away while Knock Out worked. Breakdown couldn’t keep his optics off the medic, and for once, it was not to make sure the mech wouldn’t strike him while his dorsal plating was turned.

            “Megatron never had to fight an opponent with quite so many teeth,” Knock Out replied. It was clear that he wasn’t intimidated by Motormaster, and that left Breakdown in awe. More surprisingly, Motormaster didn’t seem inclined to kill him. They almost seemed like friends, or as close as it got with mechs like them.

            “So, Knockers,” started Drag Strip.

            “Don’t call me that.”

            Drag Strip was undeterred. “Ever think of what kind of mech could win you over with a challenge? Or without one, if you’d rather just go for it…”

            Motormaster snorted. “He prefers them ‘heavy duty.’”

            “Oh.” Drag Strip scrunched his olfactory sensor. “But you’re not dead-set on a bigger model, are you? Obviously, you know when a hot deal is on your doorstep, right? Someone too good to pass up.”

            “Well…” Knock Out’s optics flicked to Breakdown, and Breakdown felt his spark jump. Those gorgeous red optics held his. “I’d need a little more information before settling on the sale, but I know when my interest is caught.”

            Before Drag Strip could say another word, Silverbolt walked in. Silverbolt looked more out of sorts than when he had to fly higher than a thousand feet or two. When he was a little ways behind Wildrider, he shifted on his pedes and said, “Motormaster.”

            “Silverbolt,” he acknowledged.

            “I heard about your living conditions,” the Aerialbot blurted, “and Prime and Elita are going to do what they can to improve them for you—for all the ex-‘Cons. They have to arrange alternate quarters for everyone while the apartments are being inspected, but…they wanted you to know that you and your gestalt are entitled to stay at the Victor’s Mansion until the situation has been handled.”

            There was a long pause. Then, Motormaster said, “Tell Air Raid he gave me the best fight of the whole tournament.” He couldn’t and wouldn’t say thank you, no matter how much the Stunticons now owed their former rivals. That was as close to gratitude as Motormaster could express to an Autobot.

            But maybe Silverbolt understood, because he nodded, said, “I will,” and left.

            Outside, the lanterns were blown out, the aisles of the stadium were swept, cloths were lifted from the fixtures, and the sun began to rise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, as promised, a few scenes that were deleted from the fic in more depth:
> 
> 1) The actual conversation between Breakdown and Motormaster before the tournament was cut because I couldn't find a good way to transition into it. It would have ended with Motormaster telling Breakdown, "I'm going to tell you who I'm choosing." This is probably the scene I regret cutting the most, though, because it is actually implied a few times that Breakdown knows more than he's saying.
> 
> 2) The Knock Out and Motormaster scene that was cut from chapter five, besides having the "Stunticon/stunt" moment, also would have included Motormaster explaining his choice to Knock Out. However, the conversation would have relied too much on discussing attributes that Breakdown and Dead End share, some of which don't show well in the confines of this fic. For example, Breakdown doesn't get to show off his intelligence as well as Dead End does, mainly because I headcanon Breakdown as being more tech/science savvy and Dead End being more for philosophy and history (and tactics), the latter topics being more relevant to this particular story.
> 
> 3) I nearly had Motormaster be the one to confront Optimus rather than the Aerialbots. Likewise, I nearly had Breakdown successfully free Dead End _or_ Wildrider from the cell and one of them arguing for the release of the others. Wildrider, specifically, would have broken onto the field during a match of the tournament.
> 
> There were probably others. Anyway, thanks for reading my fic until the end! You're all wonderful <3


End file.
